


Project: Accipiter

by zombie_socks



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Action typical violence, Canon Divergence, Origin Story, SHIELD, Strike - Freeform, Strike Team Delta, old fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-13 02:25:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 64,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3364262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombie_socks/pseuds/zombie_socks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawkeye origin story spanning from the early 2000s and leading up to the Avengers in 2012 (with flashbacks in-between).  </p><p>Easy has never been a word Clint would use to describe his life. And when he gets an unexpected visit for an agent working for some shadowy organization offering him a job, it goes out the window entirely. </p><p>Featuring new characters and old favorites, friends and foes and some in-betweens that are kind of hard to assign a side to, and a possible theory on the Cosmic Cube.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude: 1

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter begins with a Prelude, a memory of Clint's (and later Natasha's). The POV change is intentional since memories are very personal things.

I don’t remember my mother all that much. I have a few memories, but most of them don’t have a lot of significance, like toddling along and looking back to see her holding my brother Barney’s hand. I can see her face, hear her voice, but none of it means anything. I never got to know her.

Dad on the other hand I remember. I remember belts and balled up fists coming down me, his open palm striking me across the cheek, while alcohol wafted up from his breath. I remember the control he always had to have despite him having none over himself. He couldn’t pay attention to the world. And it was that trait that gave way to one of the other few memories I do have: the accident that cost me most of the hearing in my left ear. I can still feel the ice breaking under me, and the water rushing in. I remember how shy I became, how I sank into the shadows, away from people. I learned to compensate for my half-deafness with my eyes. Observing the world became my hobby.

I also remember hearing the atrocious screech of metal on metal; feeling the impact of colliding, opposing physics; detecting the smell of blood and booze mixing in the air; panicking at the sight of Mom’s lifeless body, and witnessing the death rattle of Dad’s last, alcohol-drenched breath. The tree and the car had to be separated with forceful tools, as did Mom’s body from the dashboard. I recall seeing my mother broken into pliable pieces and thinking that she’d been broken for a long time previous. Just how many of those bruises on her skin were from older injuries?

I swore I would never go to a hospital ever again if I could help it. The sterile environment was scary-ass shit to my already frightened five-year-old mind. I remember the stitches on the back of my head.  

I recall the uncomfortable wooden chair of the courtroom and our elderly neighbor, Ms. Lansburg, talking to adults in suits. I remember the moment I became the state’s responsibility. And I remember the worst night of my life, the first one in one of nine foster homes. It sat seventy miles southeast of Waverly, and was separated from most of civilization with the Cedar River on the left and all farmland on the right.  

Those were four long years. Always moving, always new. Barney didn’t have as much trouble as I did. He made a few friends at every new home we went to. Me, I kept to myself. I observed the world that I would never completely call mine.

I watched the other kids, took in their actions, interactions, and reactions. I would survey them from the concealment of high branches of the one tree available on a playground, or a garage roof. I got in trouble sometimes for tossing rocks at the birds that frequented the area. The meal-ticketers tried to explain to me that by doing so I was devaluing life and that, should I continue, life would devalue me back. When asked if I understood, I just shrugged. Life pretty much had discarded me to a special pit of Hell. The good news was I wasn’t alone, not with all the shit Barney got into.

Being high above the world was the best way to keep an eye on things. I saw better from a distance. Plus it allowed me to watch out for Barney, and trust me; he needed it.

It bothered him to have his younger brother always looking out for him, and understandably so. No one wants someone telling them they can’t sneak out at night, or that they’ll get in trouble. Especially when it’s someone younger. I monitored Barney and his friends hated it. But it was a necessity. He had a tendency to choose the wrong kids to hang out with, got into trouble on purpose to prove a point. Shit like that. It was up to me to reel him back in.  

And Barn understood the necessity of that. He knew where I was coming from and despite rolling of eyes, and swears thrown in here and there, Barn accepted that there was no way either one of us was going to be separated from the other. We never entertained the reality that adoption would become more of a possibility if the couple only had to feed one child, not two. We couldn’t.

 

“Clint,” he whispered late one night from the bottom bunk in the bedroom of house number nine. “Hey, loser, you awake?”

“No, go back to sleep,” I replied groggily and rolled over, my eyes closing on the sight of the ceiling.

“We only have three days,” he whined quietly.

“Three days ‘til what?”

“’Til I turn thirteen.”

I opened my eyes. “So?”

I distantly heard the rustle of the sheets as he moved from his side to his back. “So teenagers don’t get adopted.”

I breathed in deeply and let it out slowly. I shoved myself up onto my elbow and hung my head over the side to look at him. “What about it?” Although, I already knew where this was going.

He looked up at me, the yellow light from the street outside the widow catching his eyes. “We could get split up,” he mumbled.

I rolled back over and stared up at the ceiling. “We ain’t gonna get split up. We’ll stay here until they move us, just like we do every time.”

“I don’t want to stay here.” He paused a second and I saw him playing with the curtain down below by its movement up top. “And I know you don’t either.” The curtain stopped moving. “Clint, you’re screaming again.”

I didn’t reply and hoped he’d think I’d fallen asleep.

He went on, “You always start screaming in your sleep when we’ve been here long enough. Every few months or so. The new wears off, and your dreams turn dark, and you start fucking screaming. And then we get a new home, and you go silent again until you get used to the place; then the screams, the nightmares start. Clint?”

I still didn’t answer, and he interpreted my silence as sleep. I sat up and stared out the window. In the distance I could see lights bordering the Cedar River, illuminating the darkness for the nighttime barges.

Foster home nine and counting.

I’d made it my unofficial job to watch out for Barney ever since Mom and Dad had died; just as he had made it his to take care of me. I didn’t really want to be dragged to yet another home, uprooted one more time, and left dealing with the bitterness of Barn having to leave the friends – however sketchy – he had made. Barn at least could make friends. He had that defense mechanism. But I also knew how much he hated dropping everything and going to a new place with new people that he’d never really get to know.

Foster home nine and counting. Nine in the past four years. Barney had never had a home; he’d been old enough to remember Waverly, but also old enough to remember all the hell that went with it. I was the only family he had left and in three days he’d be a teenager. He was right; teens don’t get adopted. Then again, neither of us had yet…

I dropped my head over the side of the bed again and looked at him for a moment before deciding then and there that I was getting us out. No just of the foster home, but of the system.

Two days later I came across a tossed-aside pamphlet on the sidewalk that read “Carson’s Carnival of Traveling Wonders.” I had a plan, one that would eventually come to save us.

But in the end, after all of it was over, the same plan would destroy me.


	2. Chapter 1: A Visit from S.T.R.I.K.E.

The sound of the alarm still shot through her. She hated the screech it gave off as if it was convicting her. She wasn’t the prisoner but that buzzer made her feel like one. A guard dressed in the blue of law enforcement led her down the tight corridor to a small meeting room. She seated herself at one of the tables that she thought looked more like it belonged in a park than in a prison. Such a sight saddened her. She hated coming here. It didn’t scare her so much anymore. What the hell did she have to be afraid of; after all she had seen, a prison was the least of her concerns.

The guard told her that it would be just a moment, so she spent that moment situating herself: straightening the files and paperwork, scanning the empty room. Aside from her no one else was there.

The window on the far cinderblock wall was barred on the outside and the setting sun cast shady stripes on the other park-like tables in the room. She looked around to the wide doorway where she had entered that led to an indoor basketball court and saw the guard talking to an inmate, but that one wasn’t hers. She was about to say something when the inmate kicked a supporting pole twice and hollered an indiscernible cry up. Within seconds a rope made from what looked like sheets cascaded downward and a man adorned in the orange of prisoners slid down. The guard motioned with his head to the woman waiting at the park table. The woman watched as he took a seat across from her and the guard cuffed the man to the bar that supported the table below. She felt the measure unnecessary but didn’t protest.      

The man before her was rough-looking with scraggly facial hair, dirty fingernails, and hardened features that simply came with the territory of a maximum security facility like Seagate Federal Penitentiary. But his eyes were different than the other convicts. They still had what she was looking for in them. It was dim, almost invisible, but she could see it there and that held her attention. She glanced at the file before her and she knew. She knew then that she had been right.

“Mr. Barton,” she addressed the man in her prominent British accent. He looked up at her, the dull light coming through the windows hitting his eyes. He was the one she wanted for this job. She went on, “My name is Alicia Stiers. I work for Special Tactical Response for International Key Emergencies. I’m here to talk to you about a job.”

His brows knitted together. “A job?” His irises seemed to dull. “Listen, I don’t do that kind of work anymore.” He leaned back as much as the handcuffs would let him and indicated the bleakness of the surroundings with a movement of his head. “Or haven’t you noticed.”

Alicia smiled sadly before opening the file on the table. “Actually, I was referring to a job you had before then.” She removed an old, stained pamphlet that advertised in faded red letters: Carson’s Carnival of Traveling Wonders.

He smirked. “Really?”

“The security end of it.”

He raised a brow. “Circus security?”

“Yes. But for a much grander big top.” She slid the file she’d brought over to him and observed as he took in the detailed notes of his life she had accumulated. She leaned back and waited, knowing it may take some time for him to come to terms with what she was offering.      

As his eyes scanned page after page of the documents she had brought, her gaze settled on the wounds remaining from the struggles he now relived through the papers before him. Numerous small interruptions on the skin of his hands came from the training he’d received from Jacques Duquesne, the Swordsman, as he was better known – the political refugee from Sin-Cong that took to the gifted orphan boy and trained him in combat. Rough calluses on his palms and the sides of his left hand’s first and middle fingers came from the weapon that held his life. A weapon whose use had been taught by Buck Chisholm, Trick Shot, a performer with a penchant for cons, gambling, and alcohol - his best friend until the night he’d betrayed him. The man before her rubbed at his shoulder. Her eyes stayed on it the longest.

She knew the power a single wound could have on a body. For him it wasn’t just the physical damage done to the rotator cuff tendons and the clavicle. The injury went deeper because of its connection to the circumstances by which the injury was acquired. The damage done to his ear was likewise.

She made a note on the sleek PDA with the troublesome stylus about fixing his ear and shoulder. When she looked up she saw him watching her. His careful blue-grey eyes continued to reassure her she had made the right selection. She knew he’d be an important contribution to the organization and the project she was currently heading.

He went back to looking at the files, his hand habitually massaging his shoulder. His wince that followed may as well have been habitual as well. With his arm turned upward, she was able to view the deep bruising on his forearm. Another wound to add to the collection he currently had going. She shook her head but couldn’t quite shake the color of the abrasion from her mind. She’d seen that red-violet more times than she’d like to admit on her own body.

 _Black and blue_ , she murmured to herself. _Black and blue, through and through._ Just like the night he’d confronted his mentor about stealing money from the circus manager, Mr. Carson himself. Jacques had beaten him within an inch of his life – the first in a long line of betrayals.  

Mr. Barton’s cautious eyes took in all of it – his past life – and she watched.

The Swordsman and Trick Shot had trained him, taught him to be something more than a good shot. But it was Monique Sofia de Jean that they owed his survival to. The gypsy took in the young orphan boy and his brother. She raised them, educated them. She knew the trouble the two could get into without some form of guidance. She was their conscious, for lack of a better term. And she was what remained of Barton’s humanity by the time he left.  

  She patiently measured his reaction to coming across the next piece of data in the file. He picked it up, twirled it around in his fingers and a small smile came to his lips that was closer to a smirk, but she would still take it.

“How is Carson anyway?” he asked, continuing to twirl the ace of hearts card between his fingers, a slit in the center from where an arrow had once pierced it.

“Dead,” she replied back curtly. “Heart attack.”

He nodded slowly. “Monique?”

“Lives in New York. Married with one child. A daughter.”

Again his head moved heavily up and down. It must’ve been strange for him to imagine that all those individuals who helped raise him had moved on – in one way or another. At last he laid down the card with a labored intention. His eyes met hers and she knew the question that was coming.

“Trick Shot?”

She pressed her lips together and folded her hands on the table. The steel was cold against the sides on her palms. “Only a rumor that he’s gotten cancer.”

She monitored his reaction to the news, anticipating anything from a smile and a laugh to a tortured cry of pain. But nothing came. He kept his features completely blank; his face displayed no sign of emotion.

After a moment he pinched his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. “Figures,” he mumbled, although she was not sure what exactly he meant by that. He thumbed through the file again and watched as he pulled out the bagged-up necklace. He scoffed slightly. “You really have been following me.” He took the item out of the plastic covering by the chain and dangled it in the fading sunlight. And try as he may he just couldn’t keep the glint of pain out of his eyes.

“She lives in San Francisco,” she offered carefully, knowing she was inching onto treacherous ground.

“Naturally,” he quipped, shoving the charm back into the bag and sealing it up. “She knew the best way to keep me at bay was to move to the water.” He closed his eyes for just a second or two and then shoved the plastic bag back into the file folder. But his fingers stayed on it for a moment. “Is she happy?” It had been a quick burst of breath; he was wary of the answer.

She nodded deliberately and carefully.

“Then she got everything she deserves.”

Barbra Morse, although she went by Bobbi: the medical researcher who happened to get caught up in a scheme that would end up breaking her heart.

After the betrayal of Jacques and the leave of his brother to join the army – an invitation extended to the man before her by his brother, and one he had declined – Barton had left the carnival scene and went on to attempt to clean up the enemies, the monsters, living on the home front. His priority was the clinic that was helping Jacques launder money and sell drugs. With Tick Shot’s help, the two went undercover in the research facility and began following its underground dealings. Then Miss Morse became an asset and the game changed.

Stiers could only imagine the poor woman’s shock when she found out that the night-shift security guard she was living with was actually the city’s infamous vigilante, the Hawk. But there had to be even a degree of affection still present because she’d let him go. The vigilante disappeared; Trick and Hawkeye went separate ways.

 _A broken heart is a painful and malleable thing,_ she mused. 

After the necklace was a copy of his enlistment form. He’d done a short tour overseas only to come home on a dishonorable discharge for not following a kill order. His target had been a kid, a boy no older than fifteen, who was believed to be running intel between two terrorist cells. Barton captured the kid, questioned him, and found that one of the terrorist leaders was threatening the boy’s younger brother if he didn’t deliver information. Barton didn’t kill the kid and instead shot the guards holding his younger brother. The reunion was cut short by an air raid. Clint barely got out of there alive, and the boys didn’t make it. Orders were orders and the man before her had disobeyed them. It didn’t matter the reason why.

Next was a newspaper article about a professional take down. It didn’t say his name, but the arrows were kind of a dead giveaway. After the army, he took to being a killer for hire. She figured that way he could have some control over picking his targets. She’d dug up some records that showed he gave most of the money away to orphanages and children’s hospitals. 

Lastly was the report for his arrest.

It was the final piece of the puzzle. It was the favor called in by a long time friend who had gotten in trouble with the gangs and drug dealers the two had previously tried to shut down. It was a representation of his worst choice, his ever-present mistake.  

He closed the file sharply, shutting out the summary of his life, and looked at her expectantly. She didn’t say anything for a moment, but continued to watch him. At last he leaned back, stopped short by the handcuffs keeping him to the table. There was more strain on them this time.

“Congratulations. You can write my biography.” The chains strained even more as he shrugged. “So what.”

“I told you I had a job offering.”

“Right. Security. And this ‘Grander Big Top’ is what, exactly?”

She grinned pleasantly and slid the other file towards him. “S.T.R.I.K.E. Special Tactical Response for International Key Emergencies.” She waited a moment, glanced at the camera in the corner of the room that was watching them and then back to her selection for the program. “Mr. Barton.”

His blue-grey eyes turned upward to her.

“Mr. Barton, I worked with your brother.”

His jaw set tight and she knew that she had unfastened a wound, a wound that was now being held open so she could reluctantly add salt. She sighed. “He talked fondly about you, about what you did. And no matter how many accolades he received for his work, he always claimed that you were better.”

He shifted. “Doesn’t sound like Barn.”

“Well,” she crossed her arms lightly, “to be fair, Barney did a lot of growing up in the years he was away from your shadow. And I really believe he never truly let go of the feeling of being overlooked, of being ‘The World’s Best Marksman’s…’ brother.”

That comment seemed to piss him off. He looked off to the side for a moment before back at her. “I’m not my brother.”

“I never said you were.”

“Then why me? Hmm? Why me for this job?”

“Because your brother said you were the best at what you do.”

“And what is it, exactly, he said I did?” His tone was sharp, if not agitated. 

“Security.”

“Security. Right.” He tossed both files across the table to her. “You and I both know that’s not the only thing I did.” His head bent down, and he squeezed his eyes between this forefinger and thumb. He looked back up, his eyes intense. “If you’re looking to replace Barn with me you’re wrong. I’m not my brother. Okay? I’m not a spy. And I’m sure as hell not a soldier.”

She pressed her lips together tightly and picked at the loose papers in the files. She crossed her legs under the table and stared down the man she had selected. “No, you’re a delinquent. You’re a vagrant; you have no home and no conviction.” She leaned in some. “Mr. Barton, let me make this extremely clear. I’m offering you the only choice that you will _ever_ have from this day on. You can either stay here and rot in a cell in that atrocious shade of orange, wasting away with every pathetic hour, or you can join my team and work out the red dripping from your ledger by participating in a program your brother helped pioneer to protect people from international disasters.”

An uproar sounded from the room adjacent to them. A small fight broke out that was remedied shortly after its inception by a pair of guards. Agent Stiers watched them for a second and tried to imagine her selection for the program decaying in this place. She knew he could very well choose that option, if anything just to spite her. How many times had Barney talked of Clint’s stubbornness? She glanced back at the man and his intense grey eyes, the same eyes as his brother’s, just… heavier. Both of the boys had had to grow up so quickly.

She remembered briefly being told the story of Clint falling through the ice when he was five. She remembered Barney saying how sick his brother always was. The Swordsman had worked that out of him. From that moment on, no one had ever had to take care of Clint Barton. Until now. If only each brother could see the weighty grey of each other’s eyes. They’d know. They’d know that they’d seen the same horrors, lived the same life. One life just happened to be going on longer than the other.         

“Can I ask you something?” Barton finally spoke.

Agent Stiers indicated for him to continue.

“How long were you sleeping with my brother?”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh come on. You didn’t even try to hide it. The second we started talking about Barn your cheeks flushed, your pupils dilated, and your arms and legs crossed in a defensive manner.”

She tried not to look flustered as she untangled her arms. But the action was pointless; the man before her had already pinned her down.

He went on, “Look, I’m not asking to be rude. I’m only asking to understand how you can even look at me. I murdered Barney.”

“No, Mr. Barton, you killed him.”

The man almost laughed in bewilderment. “There’s a difference?”

“There is to me.” She folded her hands again but this time they held her interest as she stared intently at her fingers. “You were doing what you had to in order to protect your friend. You didn’t know the guard was your brother; how could you, he was undercover. You were going off of someone else’s intel-”

“Which was my fault-”

 “No. It was not your fault. You were following orders, saving your own skin and that of your friend’s.”

“Yeah, some friend.” He rubbed at his shoulder again.

“Let me ask you this. Did you sit alone in a room for three days prior to the mission and fantasize how it would feel to have your brother’s blood wash over your hands?”

The words settled deeply onto his mind, but after a moment he said, “No.”

“Then he was killed, not murdered. That’s how I justify it, and you’re welcome to that justification if you want it.”

He paused a moment before answering indifferently, “Okay.”

Agent Stiers shuffled the file and the papers into place and stared expectantly at the man before her.

He looked tired, if not fed up with the weight on his shoulders. Nothing was going to change the events that had transpired as of late. Nothing was going to bring back the man she had lost. But she could bring back his contribution and that was her only intention. She focused her days around that goal, making it crucial that she leave this visit with more than just the files she came with.

“Well?” she asked.

He played with the corner of the file on the table, making the chain of the cuffs clink softly. “Guess I don’t really have a choice.” He looked up at her, catching her micro-smile that she was desperately trying to keep hidden. A grin of that nature would be gloating; hell, it’d be showing emotion. He figured, as an agent, she could not afford such a luxury as emotion. And now, belonging to S.T.R.I.K.E, neither could he.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!   
> So here it is: the first chapter of Project: Accipiter.   
> Remember, this is an OLD Fic so any and all material comes from one of three places: MCU, comic book information on the web, and my own (highly scattered) brain.  
> I know this first part was kind of slow and maybe a bit confusing, but PLEASE stick with me. I promise you this story does have a plot. 
> 
> I will be posting one Prelude and one Chapter every week on Sunday so keep an eye out.   
> Thank you so much!!!


	3. Prelude: 2

While most people celebrate the coming of the New Year with joy at yet another chance, I dreaded it. A new year meant a new home. It meant new rules, new people, new challenges, new enemies, and even fewer friends. It meant once again packing up the scarce belongings I owned and shoving them into a backpack worn thin from use.

A new home meant having to establish that I wasn’t going to tolerate teasing and worse. It meant having to push through more fights, and gaining more bruises and scars. It meant getting in trouble with authorities that never understood what such a quiet kid like me could have against everyone so soon into my placement.

A new home meant new teachers and new classes and new schools with hallways stuffed full of discontented children. It meant new tortures from local bullies and new efforts to ward off anyone trying to make friends. There was no point in having friends if I’d just have to say good-bye to them in a few months.

One school had a giant map on the wall that I’d stare at. I told Barn that, one day, I’d travel all around the world. He responded somewhat bitterly with, “We travel all the time, Clint.” I didn’t know how to explain to him what I really meant.

My worn-out backpack and I would bounce around from placement to placement, gaining scars, gaining holes. My clothes and shoes did the same. Clothes and shoes were always such an issue. Clothes would be too big or too small or too threadbare to count, and shoes would have so many holes and worn-out tread that it would probably have been better to go barefoot.

And if there’s one thing I’ll never forget from those six years of hell it’s how damn cold I was all the time.

Inside and out.


	4. Chapter 2: Destination London

The black leather boots were new and stiff, and he could already feel where blisters would bloom by the end of the day on his heels and ankles, but they were solid and grounding and felt right on his feet. The laces still had their resin residue on them and the heels were far from quiet; they made a solid, audible thud on the ground with every step. But they were an anchor to the new place, new job, and new life he now had. The leather would soften over time, the laces would develop knots and kinks in the appropriate places, and the heels would dull and become silent.

He picked up the standard issue Glock, testing the weight of it in his hand. He unlatched the magazine, caught it as it slid down, examined it, and upon seeing it was full, slammed it back into the gun. He flipped the weapon over and over in his hands, feeling the cold gunmetal, the size, the shape. Almost by instinct he cocked it, spun around to face the open wall, and pulled the trigger fifteen times, emptying the mag. Every target opposite him had a hole at the center where paper had previously been.    

He took a breath and shoved the feeling of satisfaction down deep inside of him. It was not a good thing to feel content with one’s own work. There is always room to become better. How many times had he been told this? He knew it; it was second nature. But then why was he edging on pride? And he knew instantly. He wasn’t content with his work, he was content to empty the mag, to feel the bullets slip loose of the chamber and find a resting spot in paper. He was content with the feel of the gun.

He laid it down and walked away, the new boots biting into his unconditioned skin. He made his way from the gun range to his quarters where he picked up the file that was waiting for him there. He rubbed at his shoulder as he read.

The document detailed the program he had now entered. After scanning through the pages, Barton could tell that this project was far more… interconnected than what he’d originally thought. What he had been told before now seemed sugarcoated compared to the details the file held. This program was designed to create super soldiers. It was vaguely connected to an American program that existed in the height of WWII. And participants were going to be given a series of injections of a serum.

The participants were to live and train together in an annex belonging to a sub-group of S.T.R.I.K.E. in downtown London. Each week they would be given an injection of the serum that had been tweaked to their DNA. After the twentieth week, they would be assigned a position at S.T.R.I.K.E. in either special ops or intelligence gathering.

 _Cool_ , Barton thought sarcastically.  _I get to play James Bond._  

Stiers entered after a moment and sat down next to him. “Any Questions?” she asked.

Barton tried to size her up. He’d gotten the impression that something just wasn’t quite right here at S.T.R.I.K.E. and that Stiers was far from blind about it. But he had long ago learned the importance of patience and decided to stick around and see what fallout would come from this place.

In response to her inquiry, he shook his head. “No, I’ve pretty much got it: twenty injections, one a week, of a serum that was derived from some experiment in the forties. The end result is a team of essentially super soldiers.” His eyes narrowed in a glower. “I thought I told you, I’m not a soldier.”

“You did, but see, Mr. Barton, the serum only enhances what an individual already has. If you lack obedience, it cannot give it to you.” There was a sly smile on the end that set the tone of her words to almost a joke. That made him noticeably uneasy.

Stiers stood up. “Mr. Barton, on the matter of your lack of soldier qualities, I can agree. But where we separate ways in our manner of thinking is in your second statement, about not being a spy. Your instincts, your insights, your history would suggest that you have a natural talent for covert operations. And while I recognize that working with others may not be your strongest point, watching them is.”

“You want me to spy on the team?”

“No. That would be in poor taste. I want you to keep a watchful eye on them.” He looked skeptical still, so she added, “Every situation needs a pair of eyes. Keep the team safe and they in turn will keep the world safe from any key emergencies that may arise. See? Security for a much grander big top.”

Clint still said nothing, but his eyes had softened some. That would do for now. She cleared her throat, changing the subject. “The lab cleared your preliminaries. Report there now for your first dose and then down to the training facility. It’s time you met the team.”

He nodded. “Sure thing.”

She paused at the doorway as if she was expecting something. When Clint offered no more words she informed, “Mr. Barton, this is a military outfit. From here on out, when I give you an order, I expect a ma’am to follow it. Are we clear?”

“Yeah.” She glared and he amended, “Yes, Ma’am.”

 

Barton could still feel the needle under his skin. The pin-prick of a hole in the side of his arm ached dully with every movement. The procedure had been simple: a single shot to the arm, a twenty minute wait to check for side effects, and a swift discharge from the lab to the training area. But Clint couldn’t shake the sensation that had followed him from the lab: the icy sensation as the liquid was plunged into his bloodstream. The feeling of fiery adrenaline shooting throughout his body. The strange revival of his systems and sense. His eyes seemed more open, sharper, able to pick up on the tiniest of movements. He felt stronger, more awake, more focused. Even his deaf ear appeared to be picking up a few sounds, like a radio not quite tuned to a needed frequency. It was strange to be so…aware.

He turned a corner and opened the door to enter the training facility. He’d been here earlier, testing out the gun range, but now seven other people occupied the space. Two were sparring on the mat in the center of the room while the other five cheered on. The fighting pair, a well conditioned man and woman, tossed around taunts with an air of good humor.

“You going easy on me, Tav? Or are you getting soft?”

“I’m just warming up, lass.” He sent a jab at her ribs which she dodged and parried with a kick that landed on the side of his leg. He wobbled a bit, allowing her a shot at his gut. With him doubled over in pain, she finished him off with a swift round kick to the head.

“Don’t call me ‘lass,’” she quipped, coming off the mat amongst a round of applause. Tav stood up slowly and with the help an Asian man. “Thanks, mate,” Tav expressed breathlessly.

It was about then that the crew noticed its newest member. The victorious woman saw him first, asking in a crisp British accent, “You the new chap?”

Clint nodded. “I guess.”

She came over and offered her hand for a brisk handshake. “I’m Lt. Col. Lacey Day of the 557th Battalion.” She glanced over her slim shoulder at the lot and one by one they came up and introduced themselves.

“Capt. Lt. Sergei Pietrovich, Western Military District 107th.”

“Commandant Antonin la Rue, Foreign Legion, 4th Battalion.”

“Capt. Christine Hawkins of the 4068th.”

“1st Lt. Josslyn Spears of the 8763rd.”

“1st Lt. Kim Jong-Lee, 1st Air Defense Missile Group.”

When his breath had returned, Lacey’s sparring partner introduced, “Maj. Andrew MacTavish, 2nd Platoon.”

Barton answered back casually, “Clint Barton.” The company seemed to waiting for the rest of the title so he added, “MO-945-3423-68.”

“And what division is that?” Lacey asked with an air of lowered intelligence as if she was talking to child.

Clint shrugged, “My arresting number.”

They exchanged nervous glances. Lacey went on with a strained smile, “We’re letting in criminals now?”

“Wait a second,” MacTavish, interrupted, “Barton? As in Barn Barton?”

Clint didn’t answer but it made no difference.

“You’re his brother, aren’t you?” Christine guessed with still a hint of a grin.

“Yeah,” Barton confirmed.

“Well that explains it,” MacTavish began. He stared down at Clint from his towering height. “You do realize that the only reason you’re here is because your brother was shagging Stiers.”

That sparked Clint’s anger. There was no way he was going to let this commando-crazed clique boss him around. He was not going to be low man on the totem pole, and he was not going to be here without proving himself.

“Okay,” he addressed calmly to MacTavish. In one swift motion he grabbed the man’s broad wrist, twisted it over, swiped his legs out from under him, and landed him on the mat, an elbow grinding into his thick throat.

“Let’s get a few things straight, ‘Tav.’ One, yes, I was in prison. But I also know at least half a dozen ways out of there. I mess up here, they send me back, I get out and disappear. So you can abandon any ideas you might have had about using that as a threat. Two, I never miss. If I want to send a shot into your heart, I can choose which ventricle I want to send it through. And three, I will do exactly that if you ever mention my brother again. Got it?”

He stood up, pushing off with his arm so that it sent one last jab to MacTavish’s throat. As he walked out of the room, he called over his shoulder, “Nice meeting all of you.” He let the door slam shut behind him.

 

His eyes still felt wide, over-sensitive. While the feeling wasn’t normal, it also wasn’t uncomfortable. Part of him really enjoyed the clarity his mind had settled in; it was a far cry from the dreary fog he’d been under since Barn…

Memories of that night surfaced: the perfect shot meeting its unfortunate target, the solid branch of metal sprouting from Barn’s chest, the dark blue veins of his brother’s lifeless body surfacing with the poison coursing through his corpse, the fire of the wound in his shoulder, the escape of his best friend as he turned tail.

He shook them all away and took another bite of his sandwich. After his meeting with the crew in the training room, he’d gone to the kitchen to hide from Stiers. It was a carryover from his days with the carnival. The mess tent hosted enough people that he could deflect a tongue lashing from Jacques or Monique and also appear occupied in case they found him. But just as it didn’t always work then, it didn’t necessarily work now.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Stiers exclaimed.

Barton kept his innocent attitude. “Eating a sandwich. Want one?”

Stiers’s hands went to her hips. “Do you really want to earn the title of insufferable?”

He shrugged. “Been called worse.”

She sat down across from him, jerking his lunch – plate and all – away. “Mr. Barton, these people are not some rival circus act that you can play pranks on and intimidate. They are your team. You are supposed to work with them.”

“I’m sorry. I thought I was supposed to spy on them.”

Stiers went on, though not entirely unfazed. “And how do you expect to get any decent intel if you distance yourself from them?”

“I see better from a distance.”        

Stiers glared daggers at him. He made a pass for his plate but she shoved it further out of reach. “Do you know what my job is?” she challenged, not waiting for an answer. “Preservation. I’m to oversee that all the agents in this program last as far into the future as possible. Now, how am I supposed to accomplish this if you keep stirring them up into a brawl?”

“The guy was asking for it,” Barton defended off-handedly.

“How so?”

“He said I was only here because of your intimate relations with my brother.” He leaned back. “That’s not true, is it, Stiers?” There was obvious mock innocence in it. He was fishing, baiting his hook to catch her answer. He wanted the truth behind the program. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Alicia Stiers wasn’t telling him something. But his attitude had put her off and she was in no mood to grace his accusation with an answer.

With an icy glare she shoved his plate back in front of him. “May I recommend that you make some friends here, Mr. Barton? It may be the only thing that saves your life.”

He watched her leave, absent-mindedly rubbing his shoulder. Make some friends? Yeah right. He stopped kneading his shoulder and shook away the remnants of the memories associated with the wound and the last friend he had who had given it to him.  

…

The view from the rooftop of the S.T.R.I.K.E. annex was hectic. But it was isolated enough from the others that Barton found it to be adequately peaceful. Swinging his legs over the side, he sat on the edge of the rooftop. Over the noisy London traffic he could hear the distant chime of a church clock tower signaling the late hour.

The effects of the serum had died down some, allowing his body to adjust to the improvements. Light was brighter, shadows not as dark. His deaf ear, with its small percentage of ability, though, had settled back to all but zero. He felt very aware and alive… and awake.

“Insomnia’s a pretty normal reaction to the first dose,” a voice said behind him. He whipped around to see Capt. Christine Hawkins lightly silhouetted by the yellow glow of the city. She came and sat down next to him on the ledge where she kept her eyes fixed straight ahead. “Can’t sleep?” she asked as if her first comment had not been heard at all.

“Not since I was five,” he responded curtly.  

Hawkins frowned but stayed silent a moment. After a police car zoomed by, sirens blaring out the blue and red signal of crime, she ventured further into conversation. “That was quite the introduction you gave today.”

Barton stayed quiet, wishing to himself that she’d leave.

She lit up a cigarette and offered him one that he declined. She blew out a tendril of smoke and watched it slither up into the air. “I want you to know that we’re not all like Tav and Lacey. They think they’re above the rest of us, and I’m not talking just in rank. I’m glad that you showed resistance, that you set the record straight with your little… demonstration. Quite frankly I think Barn would have-” she stopped, suddenly recognizing her mistake of breaking his clearly laid out third rule. She drew in a hit of her cigarette and waited for his reaction. But it didn’t come. He sat there, still and silent, like some forgotten stone angle on a cathedral roof. Christine thought it best to change the subject. She blew out some rancid smoke and asked, “So can you really shoot that well?” She was expecting the continued silent treatment, but he instead surprised her with an answer.

“I haven’t actually tried selecting a ventricle, but I can’t see where it would be that difficult.”

“So are you an archer too, like Barn?” She risked using his brother’s name again. But she had pushed too far and his break from silence was over with a simple reply of, “Not anymore.” A quick, almost unnoticeable squeeze of his shoulder alerted her to possible injury there.

Recognizing that their conversation was over, as well as her cig, she swung her legs over the side of the ledge and onto the rooftop.

“Dose number five,” he called over his shoulder to her.

“Pardon?”

“That’s the one you’re on.”

She was stunned at his accuracy. “How did you-”

He had seen it on her chart in the lab before the tech had covered it up with his own file. But Barton didn’t want her thinking that they’d established some kind of relationship. So he just tapped the side of his head and smiled. He could tell it un-eased her.

She left and he turned his gaze once more to the chaotic world below. The sound drifted up, surrounding him in the impatience of the place. The light pollution washed out the stars, and the sea breeze was stifled by the buildings. Fog hid much of the city from view and tiny, misty droplets hung in the air, chilling him. What little peace this place had brought him had vanished like the smoke from Hawkins’s cigarette.

He stood up and stretched. His body was itching for movement and he couldn’t tell if it was the serum or his own natural restlessness. He took out a well-worn deck of cards from his pocket and began shuffling them methodically. He counted out thirteen cards and looked at them one by one: ten of spades, king of hearts, two of diamonds, nine of clubs, four of hearts, and so on. He logged the image of each card into his mind and played it back, memorizing the order of the cards. When he had it down, he counted out another thirteen and cataloged those until he had the whole deck resting in his brain.

It was a trick Jacques had taught him in an effort to get the young man’s mind to settle. Barton had shuffled and memorized countless decks in those days and it still made no difference. He couldn’t sleep. He had gotten his usual three or four hours of restless slumber and then spent the rest of the uneasy nights learning the deck over and over again. By the time he was seventeen, he was an expert card counter. Coupled with his marksmanship, the boy had an act.

Jacques would hold up a deck of cards with crowd-pleasing flair. Barton would stand in the center of the arena, a ring of corkboard circumventing him with fifty-two cards pinned to it. Jacques would flip over a card and Hawkeye would land an arrow into the corresponding card in the ring. The crowd would watch in amazement as the World’s Greatest Marksman sank fifty-two arrows into fifty-two cards in just over a minute. The crowd would go wild and it was that applause that would eventually drive Barn to leave, to join the army, then S.T.R.I.K.E., and eventually place him in a hole six feet deep.

With the deck memorized, Barton tucked the cards back into his pocket and turned to go inside. But a movement just over the ledge caught his eye. Down in the street, he saw two shadows slither along out into the street. His sensitive eyes watched them carefully; their forms took shape in the leaked streetlight. Antonin and Kim expertly blended into the crowded street heading west. Barton got the suspicion that they were up to something not S.T.R.I.K.E. related. He watched them until they disappeared around a corner and into the London fog. He left the rooftop with only one thought on his mind: there was definitely something more going on at the S.T.R.I.K.E. annex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to do my best on researching military rank in other countries, but I admit fully to the possibility of my being wrong on it. 
> 
> Thank you to all for reading, commenting, Kudos-ing, and bookmarking. You are what keep this story being posted. :) Thanks!


	5. Prelude: 3

In the circus, I designed my world so that I could keep an eye on it. I knew dozens of locations with excellent vantage points. I watched the crowds as they filtered in all wide-eyed and amazed. This was a world they didn’t live and breathe in. They couldn’t fathom belonging here and only came for the novelty of the difference. Their lives were pallid, disenchanted, and dull. They needed the color and the spinning lights to dazzle them back to life. I know because it did it to Barn and me.

But for all my observation of the crowd, I never adjusted to the way the tables turned when the show started. It was my job to watch the people both in the show and out for security purposes. (I fired a non-lethal shot or two at my share of purse-snatchers and petty thieves.) But when it was my turn in the ring, when the world flipped and the crowd watched me, that was when I finally felt the magnitude of the number of people present.

Crowds, big or small, they looked the same from a bird’s eye view. But in the ring, under their scrutiny, it always seemed like their eyes increased exponentially in number. I hated being watched. It wasn’t like I had an issue with being judged or anything like that. I honestly couldn’t care less what they thought of me. What I hated was being seen. I was open, vulnerable. I’d spent most of life hiding because it was one of best ways to stay safe from Dad’s drunken rampages and the older foster kids’ fists. But to be seen, noticed, by thousands of eyes, that was unnerving.

Jacques said it would pass. He told me I’d get used to being seen so much that I’d see crowds as a favor. Crowds help you blend in. Be the norm.

He was right about that.

But he was wrong about being watched; I never got comfortable with being noticed. And I always know when someone has eyes trained on me.         


	6. Chapter 3: You Are Being Watched

At four weeks into the program, Barton had really started to feel the effects of the serum. He’d gotten stronger, faster, more agile. His vision was crystal clear; his deaf ear was slowly starting to come back to life. His wounded shoulder had regained strength and motion at a level that could almost be classified as normal. His mind was sharper and more active. He could process situations quicker, remember more. He’d tried it with the cards at night and was amazed to find how quickly he could memorize a deck.

While he was still unhappy about working with the all-star-best-and-brightest recruits, he had learned a balance with them that seemed to satisfy the powers that be. He’d show up for training, utilize the skills they possessed to accomplish a mission. When split into teams, it seemed he was always pitted against Lt. Col. Lacey Day. He enjoyed kicking her ass. Lacey relied too heavily on her and Tav’s experience, on their protocol. It made them predictable. While technically Sergei was in charge according to rank, no one protested a plan laid out by Barton. It worked a good eighty percent of the time, and that other twenty didn’t really count because improvisation had gotten them the flag any way.

His team had learned to listen to his tactics. It surprised them that this convict from the states could execute strategies that put Ms. Military and her band of marchers to shame. But Barton wasn’t unskilled in warfare. Jacques had taught him the many skills and tactics he had employed in Sing-Con. Everything from leading platoons, to espionage, to guerrilla warfare, Barton had learned it all from him.  _Desperate men do desperate things,_  he had told him.  _Men who wouldn’t touch a gun will shoot whole divisions if the pressure is right._

“How’d you learn to shoot like that?” Josslyn had asked one day after training. He had responded with the truth, “Pressure.”

Jacques had known exactly what pressure that would be.  _You want to learn to make every shot count._   So he left him in the woods for four days, his bow in one hand and a single arrow in the other. The pressure of hunger. He came back to camp with a doe, a single shot in her head, and a hardened look on his face. The pressure of hunger hadn’t only taught him accuracy, it had taught him desperation. Necessity. He had taken life to protect his own.

That shadow would never leave his gaze.

He had formed a working relationship with the team members, and even to a degree had opened up to some friendships. But he hadn’t been lying to Stiers when he claimed to see better from a distance. And so as soon as the exercises were over, the standardized meals eaten, Barton went back to being by himself. He shut himself off from the others and let their secrets unfold from his perches around the annex. He stayed out of the way mostly, but his curiosity got the best of him with Lt. Col. Lacey Day. He found her sneaking out of Stiers’s office and couldn’t help himself.

“Getting tired of having your ass handed to you in training? Thought you’d complain to Stiers?” he asked, dropping down from a catwalk above Day.

She glanced up, slightly surprised at first, but then irritated at the identity of the speaker. “What I talk about with Agent Stiers is my business alone,” she defended, crossing her arms over her chest.

Barton was standing next to her now. “Fine by me.”

Lacey tried to walk away, but he stopped her with, “Can I ask you something?”

“Please make it quick, Barton; I’m busy.”

“Why did you duck into Tav’s punch yesterday?”

Days eyes narrowed. “Excuse me.”

“You were sparring with Tav yesterday and you ducked into his punch.”

“So? I messed up. You happy?”

“No. You repeatedly, purposefully, dodged blows aimed at your abdomen. You allowed your face, hands, arms, anything else to take the brunt of his hits.”

“So?” she repeated curtly, trying to get him to stop. She didn’t want him to know, to say the awful truth she was hiding. Clint picked up on her stern warning and it confirmed his suspicion. That was all he really needed from her. But he’d stepped into this mess and now it was his responsibility to find a way out.

Lying he said, “So you may want to have that liver looked at. Before anything worse happens.”

A flare of astonishment and confusion came into her eyes. But it was gone almost instantly and she pivoted around, leaving. Over her shoulder she yelled, “You’ll never replace your brother, Barton. You’ll always be his pale imitation.”

He knew she was only looking for a place to stab at him. But, man, she had found one.

…

 

Stiers was in a meeting. All around the big black table, men in dark suits watched inlaid screens on the tabletop. The images showed the training facility next door. Scores of cameras captured the exercise in real time and replayed it to the businessmen next door.

“Gentlemen,” Stiers began in all professionalism, “you can see the serum has been successful so far.” She wiped her hand over the table and files took the place of the live footage. “Maj. Andrew MacTavish is the furthest along with the program. He’s on dose thirteen and holding.” She flicked her hand again and a chart accompanied Tav’s file on the screen. “His vitals are proportionate to the dosage; his reflexes, muscle responses, tissue burn rate, and cognitive processes are all increased and resting in desirable zones. He’s still responding to the serum, meaning more growth is expected.”

“And no signs of mental degrade like with the late Captains Teller and Barton?” One of the men asked.

Her jaw tightened a little, but she held her calm. “There have been no signs of mental degrade.” She hoped her words didn’t sound as rehearsed as they actually were.

The men nodded, some took notes on their Blackberries or whatever their country’s technological equivalent was. They continued to watch the footage of the exercise. After a moment one of the executives asked, “How many participants are in the program now?”

“Eight.”

“I only count seven.”

Everyone switched their attention to the screens before them. Stiers searched every camera, every angle, but she could not see him. “Dammit,” she muttered to herself. “Where the hell is Barton.” 

 

Back on the course, Christine hunkered down near a wooden crate in an effort to dodge the paint ball fire she was under from the opposing team. Sergei slid in next to her, rifle and pistol out. He handed her the pistol and a new clip.

“Thanks,” she expressed somewhat breathless. “Man, they’re not letting up.”

“They foiled our flank plan.” A shot shattered some of the crate and sent splinters and paint droplets flying. The pair fired at the shooter but the enemy fire kept coming. “Where the hell is Barton?”        

 

Lt. Col. Lacey Day was smiling to herself. Tav’s cover fire was relentless. She had Antonin and Josslyn block the approaching flank team of Sergei and Kim and it had all allowed her a clear shot to the flag. All she had to do was capture it and the exercise would be over. The grin on her face widened as she thought about waving that flag under Barton’s nose. The great strategist had failed to show up right when his team needed him the most. His selfish behavior had cost his team their winning streak.

Her fingers stretched as the sound of rapid fire continued behind her. She reached out, the blue fabric so close.

An alarm sounded, signaling the exercise was over. But she hadn’t grabbed the flag yet. It still hung there, blue and bold. And then it hit her. Where the hell was Barton?

 

No one had seen him. He’d noticed the little blinking red light out of the corner of his eye. He knew they were being monitored. They’d had no time to plan this exercise; there had been more obstacles, less hiding spots and coverage. This time around it would be a blind run. And this time, they were being watched.

Stiers hadn’t mentioned that there would be evaluations, and her lack to do so pissed him off. He was not going to perform for a crowd, be graded, be judged by them. He’d had enough of that with the carnival. So he figured a little retaliation would be justified.

He’d slipped in between the low hanging ductwork and the ceiling, shuffled his way on his stomach toward the draped red flag. He waited until the rest of his team had the attention of Day’s and then he simply reached down and grabbed the fabric. The alarm went off; the training exercise was over. No one had seen him. No one had evaluated his performance. And Lt. Col. Lacey Day had lost once again.  _Looks like everybody wins_.

 

Stiers was grossly furious as she saw him drop down from the air duct and onto the course. She collected herself as she turned to face the businessmen and their waiting question that only one of them – a small, calm gentleman in the back – was brave enough to ask. “Who was that?”

She smiled gently, never losing her composure. “That is Clint Barton. He’s the latest participant to join.” She’d added the last part in an effort to explain his rather un-commendable behavior.

“What was he doing operating off course?” another inquired.

“Obviously trying an alternative strategy.” She was straining now. She made a note to herself to strangle Barton later.

She could hear the faint beeping of the desk controls as one of the men accessed Barton’s file. She tried not to flinch as he stated, “He has a military record. Dishonorable discharge?”

“He was incarcerated!” another exclaimed. “First degree murder! Stiers, what were you thinking?” It was a reprimand.

God, she was going to kill Barton. If he cost her the program she would kill him. The meeting room was in an uproar. She could feel tensions rising. She needed to regain control.

Fluttering her hand over the table she accessed Barton’s file. “I was thinking that I’d take a chance. Barney Barton was taken from the program, from this world, in a tragic way and before his time. But I decided to make the most of the situation by calling upon his brother to fill in the gap that Capt. Barton had left in the program. Their DNA was similar enough that only a little tweaking was required for the serum to be turned from Capt. Barton’s into his brother’s. I was aware of his history, but I took the risk figuring that if he got out of control, well, that would be when the program lost another participant, versus when Barn died.” She enlarged a digital chart on the table’s surface. “The results were pleasing. Gentlemen, this data is from last week when Barton was on only dose seven.”

She watched with satisfaction as their jaws dropped.

“And no mental deterioration?” one asked.

“Not even an inkling.” She let that settle in for a moment. “Yes, gentlemen, Barton is a little… unpredictable. But with results like these you can understand why I put up with a few little quirks.”

They made some more notes in their electronic data organizers. Then one asked, “Have you introduced any modifiers into his serum?”

“Only a few to fix some physical issues.” She clarified, “A cell regenerator to heal some damage done to his shoulder, and a neuro-adhesive to repair a nerve in his left ear.”

“But no behavioral elements?”

She kept her face fixed and her business smile on. “Not yet. I’ve been curious to see what the serum would do to him on its own.”

The man - a robust gentleman with a trimmed beard and mustache – nodded, although he was obviously not convinced. “If I may, Agent Stiers, if you introduced a behavioral element into his serum that reinforced his obedience, I bet you’d see these results increase even more. If you take out some of the unpredictability, he can concentrate on the program and the program alone.”

Several nodded in agreement.

He went on, “Agent, I’m sure I speak for many of us, if not all, when I say that we are very interested in this program you have put together. However, you’ve yet to produce a single successful participant. We are intrigued but not yet sold. If you can give us that successful participant, we’ll buy into what you’re offering. And personally, Agent, if that participant is Barton, I’ll buy the whole program at double your asking price.”

The men dismissed themselves with that comment, a few of them snickering at the challenge that had been presented. Stiers collapsed into a seat after they left and let out a great sigh. Before her was a troublesome decision. Barton was giving her amazing results; the introduction of a behavioral enhancer could ruin that. On the other hand, his lack of control made him unmarketable. If she had any hope of selling the program, of selling him as an agent of the program, she’d have to fix that.

She heard small beeping again and noticed that the room wasn’t completely empty. “Pardon me, sir. Are you not aware that the meeting ended?” Her voice was a little sharp and sarcastic, but she didn’t much care at the moment.

“No I gathered that,” he replied in his calm tone. He was the small gentleman that had spoken earlier. “I was just following up.” He came closer to her, leaning his hands on one of the seat backs.

“I see. Excuse me, but I don’t believe I caught your name.”

He stuck out his hand and she shook it. “I’m Agent Coulson with the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement Logistics Division.”

“That’s…quite the title.”

“And Special Tactical Response for International Key Emergencies, isn’t?”

She couldn’t help but smile a little at that. Clearing her throat she asked, “So what do you think of the program?”

“Honestly I can say that I don’t think we’ll be buying it.”

She tried to hide her disappointment as best was she could. In turn she asked, “What would you suggest to improve?”

“I’m not sure. The whole thing just seems ill timed.”

“Too soon?”

“Too late. Agent Stiers, ma’am, I hope you understand that your attempt to recreate the super soldier formula is nothing more than a valiant effort to recreate the past. There was only one man who could’ve survived it and he’s long gone. Please excuse me for saying, but you’re just simply too late.” He left then, calling over his shoulder, “I’m sorry.”

Stiers shook her head. She scanned the files on the screen in front of her. Barton’s was still on top. Only one could survive it? Bullshit. And she was going to prove it. But first she’d have to have a word.

 

Lt. Col. Lacey Day was fuming as she watched Barton and his team set the flag next to the others they had collected. Once again she’d lost and she hated it. She was sick and tired of Barton getting rewarded for his unprofessional behavior. She wanted to scream as he flashed a smile back at her. She thought it very childish and… she forced herself to take a deep breath and stopped herself from putting a hand on her lower abdomen. She needed to calm down, to relax; she really needed to get off her feet because they were swelling up and killing her.

Barton’s team was still celebrating their victory. But their smiles faded as Agent Stiers stormed in.

“Mr. Barton, a word please,” she commanded, her eyes cold as ice. Clint had figured this would happen, but it never ceased to amaze him just how angry Stiers could get. She motioned him away from the group out of fake courtesy because her voice was more than loud enough for the rest of them to hear. “What the hell were you thinking? The exercise clearly states that you are to work with your team to capture the other flag.”

“And I did that. They drew fire and attention away from the flag and I snagged it.”

“You were not on the course.”

“Really? Stiers, do you honestly think that the real world has nice little walls and a ceiling? You use what you got.”

“And what if you have nothing? What if you can’t hide? What if you’re caught in the middle of the fight and you can’t duck and cover? What if you’re forced to take a stand and fire?”

“Then for Christ’s sake you fire!”

“Then why don’t you try it sometime? Give your teammates a chance to take the flag.”

“Why the hell are you on my ass? Lacey tries to play follow the leader every time and you never raise hell at her.”      

Her eyes turned to stone. “Barton, I am trying to make this program function for you, but you have  _got_  to give me something to work with.”

He rubbed at his jaw for a second. “’Something to work with.’ Okay.” He gestured to his not so distant team, singling out Kim and Antonin. Stiers wanted intel. Fine. He’d give it to her. “These two have been sneaking out for some late-night, illegal gambling and owe thousands to the kings downtown. Joss and Sergei are sleeping together and this upsets Christine because she has a school girl crush on him and is best friends with Josslyn who is bi. Seriously, guys, get your Shakespearian love triangle together, ‘cause, damn, I have trouble following it sometimes. Tav’s so juiced up if you squeezed him ‘roids would come out of his pores like a freakin’ lemon. And Lt. Col. Lacey Day,” he glared at her and she stared daggers back.

“Barton,” she warned with severe venom.

But he didn’t back off. He was sick of Stiers playing games and wanting secrets and using him to get answers. She wanted the truth. So the truth came out with, “is three months pregnant.”

Everyone was silent, stunned and embarrassed at their hidden truths coming to light. Barton was not satisfied as he thought he would have been. Instead he was just sad. And as no one moved or said anything, the sadness turned to anger. These people didn’t even try to hide their secrets and they did nothing to defend themselves. They just stood there, completely nonreactive. He shook his head and pushed forcefully past Stiers and her sad, disappointed eyes.

“I hope you can work with that,” he mumbled.

 

Clint was lazily throwing darts when Stiers came in. She looked smaller, depleted. He felt he should apologize, but mending fences had never really been a strong point for him.

“We need to talk,” she began as if she was still clinging to her stern nature.

“You wanted intel,” he defended, shrugging on the end to make it seem more acceptable.

She pressed her lips into a line and stood up straighter, regaining some of her previous stature. “To be delivered to me in private, yes.” She sighed a little. “Barton, what you did today was unacceptable, and I’m not just talking about airing everyone’s dirty laundry. You disobeyed orders.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not a soldier! I’m not my brother.”

“No. You sure as hell aren’t. Barn would never have pulled the idiotic stunts you did today. He would never have hurt his teammates the way you did. He wouldn’t have made me beg for his cooperation-”

“I’m not making you-”

“He would never have treated me this way!”

“No, I’m sure he wouldn’t have. But I’m not him!” He collapsed onto his bed and rested his head in his hands. He didn’t feel well all of the sudden. He muttered, “I could never possibly be.”

Gently, she sat next to him. “Clint, I really need you in this program.”

It struck him as an odd thing to say. His mind went into high gear.  _Why would she need me?_ She had purposely gone and sought him out. She had given him more warnings, more breaks, and had demonstrated more tolerance than he deserved. And with the discovery of the cameras watching them in the training session today, Clint was guessing that Stiers needed a certain number of participants in the program. But why? He wanted to ask, but dared not to. He was already on thin ice and it was melting quickly.

So instead he wagered, “Then let’s make a deal. I’ll stay; I’ll try and behave – no promises. And in return, you don’t have me spy on the others anymore. I think you’ve got plenty to go off of.”

She nodded. “I do, yes.” A pause as she considered. “I believe we can work with those terms.” She stuck out her hand and they shook on it.

He smiled as she left.  _Good_ , he thought.  _Now that I’m not tied up with everyone’s drama, it’s time to work on what’s really going on here at S.T.R.I.K.E._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COULSON!!!
> 
> So what's going on here at S.T.R.I.K.E.? Leave a comment with your guess if you want.   
> Speaking of, thank you to all that have commented, and to those that have read and bookmarked and left Kudos. I really appreciate you guys!!!


	7. Prelude: 4

I remember my mouth being so full of my own blood that I started choking on it. I lulled my head over and felt the crimson liquid crawl out. I remember coughing and trying to call out for help before I blacked out.

The next thing I knew I was back in Monique’s tent, blue and purple silk draped everywhere. I recall her hands on me, cleaning wounds and tying bandages, and trying to get me to stay awake.

“Clint, _bien ador_ é _,_ wake up.” Her voice was distant and foggy. I felt her put her hands on my cheeks, getting me to focus on her face. Monique’s features slid briefly into view before graying out again.

A light slap brought me back and it took a second but I eventually recognized that she’d asked me a question. She repeated it, “Who did this to you, darling?”

My head was swimming and felt like it weighed a ton. My lips were caked in dried blood and my whole mouth seemed to be full of cotton. I knew the answer to the question. My mind raced back to when I tried to stop him from turning the till money over to be laundered by some drug dealers. He’d gotten a dangerous look in his eyes and before I could even brace myself, he’d thrown the first punch. My faith in him shattered with my ribs. 

“Jacques,” I croaked out hoarsely in answer.

All I remember after that was Monique’s frown.

The rest I know through bits and pieces of people’s stories. I know Monique ordered Carson to rig up a search party to find the Swordsman. I know it took some convincing to get Carson to agree that I be taken to a hospital.

“I know it’s paperwork we don’t need and money we don’t have, but sir, he’ll die without proper care. His injuries go far beyond my capabilities,” Monique had pleaded.

“Fine,” the ringmaster agreed, “but if anyone asks all we know is that he got into a fight. No details. The last thing we need is the cops poking around. Circus business is strictly circus business.”

He’d later find out what I was trying to stop and would regard me as a hero. But I didn’t feel like a hero. I felt like I’d betrayed the man who trained me. I would lay awake at night from the pain and replay the moment over and over in my head, trying to come up with any different way I could have played it. And each time I’d slip into a drugged sleep unsatisfied.

I know I was under with an anesthetic but I swear I can remember part of the surgery. No pain, just nurses and a doctor all in blue masks patching me up and wondering out loud why I had so many scars.

I recall waking up in crisp white sheets and the sensation of dull pain was everywhere on my body. Trick would visit and sometimes Barn would come too. He’d had a strange look in his eyes, though. Like he was always pissed about something that he could never put into words. Then again, that had become his default expression around me since I got my act.

Monique had brought a silk and velvet cover to put on the bed claiming it needed some comfort and brightening up. “White or black, everything needs a splash of color,” she’d noted. Blue and purple. Like a bruise. But it broke up the white and I remember really noticing her favorite colors for the first time. In her tent they were everywhere; it was inundated with them. But in that sterile room, the colors stood out enough to make me care. To make me never forget them.

After a few weeks, I was finally discharged. First thing I did was get some proper food, the second was head to the target range to practice. That’s where Barn found me and told me he was leaving for the military. I was shocked, appalled even. And then he’d offered for me to come with him. We argued loudly, yelling things that neither of us truly meant.

“Absolutely not, Barn!”

“You can’t stop me on this, Clint.”

“You’re gonna get shot. Or worse, you’ll end up like Dad. No. I didn’t watch your back in foster care all those years just to have you throw it away!”

“Oh, sorry. I forgot how _selfless_ you are, Clint. Or did you not realize that you forgot about me the second we got here?”

“What are you talking about?”

“When was the last time I meant anything to you?”

“You’re my brother, Barn. You mean everything to me.”

“Then come with me.”

“Barn, I-I can’t.”

“Why? Because of this show? Because you’re the center of attention and you can’t get enough applause to fuel your ego?”

“Barn-”

“Forget it, Clint.”

 

And in the morning, he was gone. I never saw him again.  

Alive.  


	8. Chapter 4: S.T.R.I.K.E. Stricken

Maj. Andrew MacTavish had gone missing. They’d been told that he’d been sent on a mission, an official outing with S.T.R.I.K.E. But two weeks later, no one had heard from him.

1st Lt. Josslyn Spears was acting strangely. She’d noticed it had happened after her last dose – dose number fourteen – and it was only getting worse. She felt detached. Distantly she watched her body from some lofty space above. She stared in horror as she lashed out at her best friend, as she blew off Sergei. She could feel the stinging blisters on her back, legs, and arms. She wanted to scream, to get out of the annex as soon as possible. And then relief. Stiers announced that she had a mission for Josslyn. Christine and Sergei tried to wish her farewell, but she wouldn’t see them.

A week later, Capt. Christine Hawkins vanished too. 

1st Lt. Kim Jong-Lee was found dead in an alleyway, the symbol of the downtown kings knifed into the flesh on his blister-covered back. When confronted about killing a government agent, the debt collectors denied doing him in. Six full bottles of his serum sat useless in the lab.

Clint Barton was noticing his mind fogging up. He was on dose ten and the clarity the serum used to give him was gone. Now after every dose he felt sick, light headed. He could no longer remember an entire deck of cards. He felt tired all the time and edgy, ready at any moment to run or hide. When Stiers asked him to do something, he did it immediately but never at the caliber he used to have. He couldn’t hit a target’s center anymore.

Agent Alicia Stiers watched in horror as the latest lab results flashed across her screen. The program was failing. She’d lost three participants and the others didn’t look to be too far behind. But she had spent too much of her life putting this together. She was not, under any circumstances, going to let it fall to its knees. She only needed one to pass. But with a review coming up and nothing but bad news to report, Stiers wasn’t sure she was going to make it. She clamped her jaw down hard. No. She was going to make it. She had no other choice.

 

The rest of the participants silently ate dinner together. No one said anything nor looked at each other. They were all in their own world, lost to this hazy one. Sergei tried not to scratch at the unbearable blisters bubbling up on his arms. No one noticed as Barton came in quickly, clear-eyed. He’d done the unthinkable and he felt incredible. One swift analysis of the table told him he’d made the right choice. He’d eventually tell them all, but he had only one goal for now.

He slid in next to Lacey. He touched her hand lightly and she painfully met his eyes. “Lacey, if you have any faith in me at all, don’t take dose fourteen.” She nodded but in a blank way. He got up and left, praying that it’d work. He still had two weeks to see. But for her, this was her last chance.                

 

The lab tech was frantic as she approached Stiers. Briskly she filled in the agent on the details. And when she was finished, the agent was furious.

Stiers stormed into the training room, her eyes ablaze. He was by himself, shooting bullets into targets with regained accuracy.

“I will ask you this only once,” she started, her teeth all but gritting. “Did you skip your dose?”

He stared at her for a moment then raised the pistol he was working with, aimed it at her, and shot off three rounds. She flinched as the bullets screamed past her and hit the wall behind.

“You tell me,” he answered.

Recovering from her shock, she demanded, “Barton, you have exactly one minute to get your ass down to that lab and take your dose.”

“Not gonna happen, Stiers.”

“Clint, you are on a very delicate time table. Any upset in the slightest could-”

“I can shoot again, Stiers. I can think, feel. I’m not going back on the serum.”

“The hell you aren’t. You will take that dosage, Barton.”

“What for? It doesn’t help me.”

“Because I need you to. And it’s an order.”

“I don’t take orders from you.”

“This one you do.”

“So you can just send me off on some mission where you have me killed? Just like Tav and Joss? Just like Barn.”

The hate in her eyes had never been more real. So ice-cold and steely. A gunmetal glare. But he was so close to the truth and he wasn’t leaving without it His bags were packed, waiting in his room and he was ready to leave the annex with Lacey, Sergei, and Antonin. He was going to sneak them out, right under Stiers’s nose.

“You think I haven’t been paying attention? Dose fourteen is a deal breaker. No one gets past it. They go nuts, get sick, and then you find a way to off them because they can no longer pass your program. Face it, Stiers, the serum is a failure.”

“We won’t know that for sure if you don’t take all twenty-”

“My God! People are _dying_! Your serum is _killing_ them.”

“Every battle has a few casualties.”

“Then what are we fighting for?”

But she never answered. She was done talking to Barton; it was time to take a little more aggressive action. The gun was still in his hand and he’d be unsuspecting. It was effortless. She swung out and twisted the gun from his unprepared hand, followed up with a kick to his side, aimed the piece, and shot him in the arm at such an angle that it just grazed him enough. He stared at it in disbelief, allowing her a window. She hit his head hard with the butt of the pistol, knocking him out.

…

 

“Agent Stiers, your program is a mess.”

“I recognize that, gentlemen,” she tried to argue, but the men in the meeting room would have none of it. They had seen the files, read the reports. They knew the flaws of her work and were letting her know it. She could see it in their eyes that none of them supported her any longer. She had to make them believe that this program was going to be a success; she just needed more time, more resources. She needed funding. She continued, “But if I could just show you-”

“You’re finished, Agent,” one of them declared. “We’re terminating the program.”

“You can’t do that!” Her eyes were on fire. She had to get them to stay.

“We’re sorry, Stiers, but it’s over. Pack up your things and report back to MI6. We’ll handle the transition of the participants – the ones that are left – back into their units with the coaxing meds that were designed exactly for this purpose.”

She was shaking her head in disbelief. “You can’t do this,” she repeated silently.

“Try again in a few years, Agent, when the serum is more… in tune.”

They folded up their files, packed up their cases, and left her with the somber sound of whirring machinery and her own disbelieving breath.

But slowly, the disbelief faded. Her jaw shut and straightened, tightening until her teeth roughly touched each other. The fire in her eyes settled down to ashes. She stood up straight and smiled.  

 

When he came to, the fog was back in Barton’s mind and he knew he’d been given dose twelve. He was in his quarters and had only one thought on his mind: to find Lacey before they gave her the serum. She was due for dose fourteen. If he didn’t get her out tonight, she’d be gone and he was not going to let Stiers take another life. This war would have no more casualties.  

He stumbled out the door. His vision was cloudy and his head felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. His insides seemed hot and liquefied. He ran as best as he could, swinging sloppily up onto the catwalk to avoid anyone who might be watching. He jumped down and rolled, his head reeling, when he reached her quarters. He pounded on the door but there was no answer.

“Looking for someone, Barton?” a voice asked behind him. Stiers stood there with wild eyes. “She was in the lab last time I saw her.”

He backed up from the door, his cloudy head bowed. “You have a lot of blood on your hands, Stiers.”

“Then I guess that makes us equals.” She patted his shoulder as she walked by, humming a strange, sad tune.

Swimming through the haze of his mind, Clint made his way to the roof. He’d found that the cool weather helped to keep some of the pain away. Absently he scratched at his arms and found the beginnings of bright red blisters.

A misty rain fell, cooling his skin and relaxing his muscles. He closed his eyes, taking in the sounds of the busy city. His once deaf ear could hear it all crystal clear but the serum was making all the noise seem directionless, like it was coming from everywhere at once. He opened his aching eyes and could see only buildings ahead of him. He hated the way the scene smelled. It reminded him of one of the foster homes he’d shared with Barn.

It struck him then. Agent Alicia Stiers hadn’t denied his accusation about sending Barn on a suicide mission. She had knowingly sent him to die. The man she loved and she’d knowingly killed him. The idea enraged him. _Had she known I would be there_? _Did she want me to kill my brother?_ Her words haunted him: I really need you to take that dose _._ But why him?

An enormous amount of heat hit him suddenly. A blinding flash of light erupted. And the now clear ear heard the sound of impact; the once injured shoulder felt the weight of stone topple on top of him. His mind filled with the largeness of the explosion, his lungs with the wafting dust. And then all went black.                 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry for that cliffhanger! But not sorry enough to not make you wait until next week. Mwaha! 
> 
> Thank you again for reading, commenting, Kudos-ing, and bookmarking. It means a lot!


	9. Prelude: 5

We were in a foster care home in Fort Dodge. I was ten. And I was sitting in the principal’s office with a bloody nose and a black eye.

The fight had been typical. A couple of kids had targeted one of the third-graders as their next victim and I’d stepped in and stopped it. They didn’t appreciate my involvement. But a little blood and a sore eye were nothing new and neither was the look on Principal Collin’s features. Her lips were pressed into a hard line, which caused creases around her eyes and in her forehead. Her hands were folded on the surface of her desk; her greying hair bordered on frazzled. She looked at me with a sad note in her eyes brought on by my lengthy list of prior trips to previous school officials.

“Would you like to tell me what happened?” she began, her voice struggling to stay even. It was strange to watch her wrestle with her thoughts. On one hand she knew she had to stay strong and unyielding, to not let me off the hook. But on the other hand I was a scrawny, starving, ten-year-old boy with a bruise on his eye and dry blood on his lip where it had dripped down from his nose. I’m sure I looked pitiful in my too-big clothes and dirty, broken-down shoes.

But I was generally unaware of my physical appearance; I didn’t care what I looked like to other people so long as I was alive. So I shrugged in response to her question and only added, “Saved a kid from being beat up for no reason.” I ran the back of my hand over the crusting blood from my nose and wiped it on my jeans.

Collins leaned back in her seat. “I see. And did you know this kid?”

I shook my head after a moment. I didn’t want to get into details with Principal Collins. I didn’t feel it was necessary to explain to her that just because I didn’t make friends, didn’t mean I didn’t look out for the other kids. I tried to “save” as many as I could before I was uprooted and shoved somewhere new in a few months. I didn’t tell her that dozens of kids were targeted everyday by this gang. I didn’t tell her that I was the only one to stand up to them and in doing so had rattled their cage enough to warrant a punch or two to the face. I didn’t tell her that the only reason I fought back at all was because I was so tired of them hurting these kids and laughing at the high they got from it. I didn’t tell her that I was used to taking punches, that I would take them from my dad for my mother because she was already damaged enough, broken enough.    

Collins shook her head slowly. “Clint, I understand you’re trying to seek out justice or something, but next time don’t take them on yourself, okay?”

“So what? I’m just supposed to let kids get pulverized on the playground?”

“No.” She was much more agitated now. “You get a teacher-”

“You guys never do anything!”

“Clint!”

I bit my lip and immediately winced at the pain. I guess the punch had busted that too.

“Clint.” It came much gentler this time. All the struggle drained from Principal Collins and she collapsed back in her chair. Resting her head on her tented hands, elbows on the desk, she sighed, “There will always be kids getting beat up on the playground. Always be damsels in distress, some poor soul in need of rescuing. Okay?” She looked at me but not in an expecting way. Her eyes suddenly seemed extremely heavy, like the weigh of the world was divided between only her deep brown irises. “The world’s full of them. And, Clint, I need you to understand that… you can’t save the world.”

I stared at her and the room was silent for a long time.


	10. Chapter 5: Welcome to SHIELD

His eyes peeled open slowly only to see pure white. His ears were still ringing. His throat was soar and the rest of him ached incredibly. He was aware of a heart monitor sounding somewhere in the foggy distance. He thought he heard a voice but couldn’t be sure. His eyes were still unfocused.

He felt a gentle hand rest on his arm and it forced all the haze to vanish in a snap. Startled, he jerked away. Sluggishly his eyes began to perceive a face – sweet, round, and pleasant.

“It’s okay,” she assured. “You’re okay.” A smile before, “Glad to see you’re awake.”

He calmed down a little, but was still really disoriented. The nurse placed her hand on his arm again and this time he kept it still. She said something his murky mind didn’t quite catch but the next part he knew all too well. There was a slight pinch as the needle slipped under his skin and into his vein. He freaked out.

He shoved the nurse’s hand away, and tried to jump out of the hospital bed he was in. But his muscles weren’t used to motion so he fell on the linoleum floor hard. He could hear the nurse screaming for assistance. He tried to stand up, but the floor seemed to keep him where his exhausted self was.

Within seconds, strong hands hoisted him back into the bed and rough leather straps kept his arms down. He could hear them saying words but they were quiet and directionless. Muted in his still ringing ears.

A doctor came up close and at last Barton could hear him clearly enough. “Just relax, son.” He tried to put the needle back in his arm, but Clint thrashed away.

“No!” he screamed, “I won’t take it! Not dose fourteen!”

A hand went over his mouth and he bit the closest finger. He felt the hand leave and shake off the pain, but he also felt the needle in his skin being removed. His slowly returning vision found the syringe to be red with blood and the nurse sighing, “There see, just a little blood work.”

He started to relax as his senses returned some. But the incident had forced his heart rate up, and his body felt completely drained. His head swam and his ears rang and his eyes blurred again.

He wasn’t aware just how long he’d been out, but when he came to again, it was nighttime. The lights in the hospital room were off but the ones in the hall shone brightly. He could see much better but his ears were still abuzz with that high-pitched drone. There was a cup of water by the bed and he went to reach for it only to find his forearm in a thick, white plaster cast. It scared his maladjusted mind. Just how bad was he beat up?

A swarm of memories from that night flashed into his head: the sensation of the ground crumbling beneath him, the intense heat. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, counting and recounting the boring, white tiles. He’d almost forgotten how much he hated hospitals. Closing his eyes, his mind went back to when he was five and had spent three weeks in one with double pneumonia, and another month or two at home trying to recuperate.

He’d been so young but he could still see his mother’s worried face as she watched her son struggle to breathe. With his brother cradled in tight at her side, she watched over the boy day and night. Of course, it was the same brother who would visit him many years later when Barton had returned to the sterile white atmosphere with multiple injuries given to him by the Swordsman. Trick had come too; the three had played cards, poker, using toothpicks and matches Trick had stolen from the nurses’ station.

 _How could we have crumbled so much_? One was dead, the other missing, and the third… what was Barton? It hit him then that he had no idea where he was or what exactly had happened. He tried to piece it together, but his brain was still afloat. He drifted, stirring only once when the night nurse made her rounds.

The next day he could see clearly, think much better, and the ringing in his ears had subsided to a quieter tone – the left one fixing towards its once silent nature once more. He sat up as best as he could and did a quick analysis of his injuries: broken right wrist, sprained ankle, remnants of blisters on his arms, severely bruised shoulder, bruised ribs, bruised head, bruised everything. His whole body seemed to be the deep red-violet of burst blood vessels.

“Ah, you’re awake,” a voice said, pulling him from his thoughts. “Feeling better?” The voice belonged to a slight, calm man with early signs of a receding hairline and polite brown eyes possessing an edge to them that told any viewer to not underestimate a potential violent force underneath. He was dressed in a well-made suit that screamed federal government, and under his arm was a manila file folder.

“Some,” Barton answered, a note of wariness floating to the top. After a pause he asked, “Where am I?”

“A private clinic. Back state-side.”

Okay. “Why? What happened?”

The man’s civil smile waned a degree. “I was hoping you could tell me.” He cleared his throat. “Do you remember anything?” 

Clint shook his head; the action only made his aching head swim again with pain. “Not much. Sorry, Mr.…”

“Coulson. Agent Coulson.”

“You work with S.T.R.I.K.E.?”

“No. I’m with the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement Logistics Division.”

“Wow, that’s… long. You ever consider shortening it?”

“We’re working on it.” The calm never once left his face. He shifted a little and asked, “Do you think you could tell me the last thing you remember?”   

 Barton thought back for a moment, recalling the scene. “The heat, the smoke and dust, not being able to breathe.”

Agent Coulson seemed to take note of the extra heaviness of the last part of that statement. “And before that?”

Barton’s brows knitted in concentration. “I was on the roof. I was…trying to clear my head.” A strange and haunting tune entered his mind and he had trouble shoving it away. He glanced down at his arm. Last night’s needle mark was still visible – a pinprick of maroon. “The serum…”

Coulson coaxed, “What about it?”

Barton’s blue-grey eyes appeared to be searching for something and a visible clarity came to them once he found it. “The program is a failure. It was killing us.” Lacey. She was being given dose fourteen. A bubble of panic rose into his throat. “Where’s everyone else?”

Coulson’s smile vanished this time. “I’m sorry, Mr. Barton, but there is no one else. You were the only one we were able to recover. Alive anyway. You said you were on the roof?”

But Clint didn’t hear any more.

They were gone. All of them. He’d failed to get them out of there in time and now they were dead. The team he had grown to care about, the people who had occupied his life for the past three months, were gone. A sense of loneliness crashed over him. He felt incredibly empty, purposeless. The sudden idea of being sent back to the prison Stiers had found him in occurred to him. He knew more than enough escape routes to get out, but where would he go? He had nothing left. Stiers’s program had been his only out and now it was gone. Crumbled under its corruption. His one escape would have killed him, but he’d give anything to have it back.

“Mr. Barton?”

His gaze settled back on Coulson.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he lied, rubbing his temples, his cast scratching at his bruised skin. “Do we know who did it?”

“The attack, you mean?”

“Yeah. It was an explosion but it was deliberate. So do we know who set it off?”

Coulson finally opened the file under his arm. “This is all we’ve got. Sorry.” He handed Barton a piece of paper. “It’s an encoded email we flagged. We’re working on it, but all we’ve gotten so far is that it was sent from someone going by the name of Monarch. I don’t suppose that means anything to you?”

“Not a bit.” He shook his head regrettably. He handed the paper back. “So what happens to me now?”

“That’s a good question. For obvious reasons, the program you were a part of has been shut down. You still have a contract with S.T.R.I.K.E., but any other department wouldn’t take you.”

“You trying to say something, Coulson?” Those slate blue eyes almost had a glint in them.

In response, Agent Coulson opened the file again. “Clint Barton, age twenty-seven, born in Waverly, Iowa. Your father was a butcher and abusive alcoholic, your mother a part-time nurse and full-time domestic violence victim. Both were killed in a car accident. You were bounced around the state in one foster home after the other until you ran away with your brother. Now, officially that’s where the paper trail stops until you enlisted and then goes dark again until you were arrested six months ago, but I’m part of an organization that doesn’t just stop with paper trails.” He flipped a page. “Carson’s Carnival of Traveling Wonders. Circus life, hmm?”

Barton shrugged.

“You received some very interesting training.”

“What can I say? Carnies are very interesting people.”

Coulson smiled a little wider. “I saw your act once. I took my first girlfriend there.”

“Yeah? What’dya think?”

“That the name World’s Greatest Marksman was a little braggy.”

Barton smirked. “Well, we can’t all be perfect.” A pause. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

Agent Coulson looked at the file again. “Troubled childhood, questionable upbringing, a lack of respect for high ranking officials, not to mention a blatant disregard for the rules. S.T.R.I.K.E. will never take you.”

“And the Strategic Homeland Logistics thing will?”

The agent didn’t say anything for a second.

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? That’s why I’m in your secret clinic instead of some general hospital laying there as a John Doe, right?”

Coulson remained silent. The heart monitor blared out its sound through the stillness, creating a strange sense of baited breath. At last the agent straightened up and said, “To be honest, Mr. Barton, I have no idea what will happen to you. You still have a nine month contract with S.T.R.I.K.E. but like I said, there’s a high chance they won’t take you back. There’s still the option of prison; with Stiers gone your release might be questioned. I wish I could tell you more, but sadly, that’s the outlook as of late.” The agent turned to leave. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

Clint was alone once more. He flopped his head down onto the pillow and groaned as a new wave of pain erupted along his skull. With his ears still ringing distantly, he felt his future become as directionless as the far off sounds reaching his temporal lobe.

 

Coulson met up with Fury in the hall.

“Well?” the director inquired.

“He was up on the roof; that’s why he wasn’t crushed as badly as the others. Less debris.”

“And did he recognize Monarch?”

Agent Coulson shook his head. “No. He’s as in the dark on that as we are.”

Fury nodded deliberately, heavily. He turned on a heel and began to trek back to the main room of the organization’s headquarters.

“Sir,” Coulson called out, matching the fast pace of the director. “What about Barton?”

“What about him?”

“We can’t just leave him here. He-”

“He’s a S.T.R.I.K.E. agent. He’s their responsibility, not ours.”

“Sir, with all due respect, they don’t even know he’s alive.”

“Then we get on the horn and tell them we found him in a hospital with amnesia or something. He’s not our problem, Coulson. We only brought him here as a possible lead on this Monarch character. He has no information, so he’s no longer an asset.”

“I understand that, Sir, but I think we’d be missing an opportunity.”

Director Fury stopped and turned to face the agent, his eyes hard and curious. “And what ‘opportunity’ would that be?”

“I’ve seen him in action, Sir. Yes, he’s unpredictable at times and argues with anyone who will listen, but he’s got an extremely keen eye and a unique mind. Yes, his training may be a little unorthodox, but it’s that uniqueness that I think would be beneficial. Coupled with the fact that right now only four people know he’s alive, and you have the perfect scenario to create an operative. Plus it’s not like he has any other options.”

“An operative? An agent for the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement Logistics Division?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Fury pondered that for a moment before walking on, his dark boots thudding down the gray halls. “He’ll need more training, Coulson.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Fury almost smiled. “Good luck getting him to agree.”

…

Barton had actually grasped his lack of options rather well. He agreed to become an agent, viewing the opportunity as a way to become what he’d been promised to be, a way to become something Barn maybe had hoped to be. 

The first few weeks had been rough. Without the serum, his reflexes were duller, his shoulder more prone to pain. His broken wrist was still slowly healing and his sprained ankle made long workout sessions a pain in the ass. Then there was his ear. It had closed up again. The ringing had subsided but he was down to only the one once more.

When he was finally back in the swing of combat, the issue of weaponry arose. Clint had never been a fan of guns; they were loud and a dead giveaway in an assassination. But he was not going back to bow and arrows, not after Barn. Despite all his insistence, Coulson could not convince the marksman to return to his former favorite weapon. He needed a new angle to get Barton back to what was most comfortable for him, because he could tell the long range high-powered rifle was not going to cut it in the field.

“Is it fear?” the agent asked.

Barton shook his head, although he himself was not sure if that was a lie or not.

The agent crossed his arms and stared down the marksman. “So it’s simply the last thing you did with it.”

Clint tightened his hands into fists. He put a warning glare in his eyes to keep Coulson from playing too much with fire. But the experienced agent was not taken aback in the slightest. “Face it, Barton. Yes, the last shot you made ended your brother’s life.”

A flare in Barton’s temper was more than noticeable.

“But unless you use the same weapon for a different cause, it will remain the last shot you ever took with it.”

He had his attention if anything.

“How much greater retaliation is there than to pick up the weapon that ended a life and use it to save one?” Coulson could tell he was drilling a hole in Barton’s thick, stubborn skull. He went on, “Barton, if you want to move on past the terrible mistake you made that night, then do it. Pick up the bow and become the World’s Greatest Marksman again. With the weapon you were meant to have.”

Barton’s eyes went cold and became incredibly distant. But he bent down and picked up the solid wooden bow resting lifeless on the table. Next to it was a hip quiver that Barton strapped on. He continued to glare at Coulson, but notched an arrow anyway. The familiar stretch returned to his arms as he pulled back on the string. He lined up the target, breathed out a slow, long breath.

And relaxed his arms without taking the shot.

“I can’t,” he mumbled. “I can’t.” He left the training hall and Coulson behind.

The feeling of the wooden bow arching with the strength of his arms, the sensation of the arrow poised in his hands, it had all been too much. He had been flooded with the memories of that night. Before his eyes he had not seen a target, but his brother’s body collapsing to the ground.

Clint curled up tighter on the support beam just off the highest catwalk and stared up at the ceiling. Coulson had been right: there was no better retaliation. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t forgive himself for Barn. He closed his eyes, his one good ear searching the multitude of sounds that surrounded him. He heard the roar of the jets outside, taking off and landing. That sparked an idea. He took off, intrigue getting the better of him.

 

“Excuse me,” a voice from below called out.

Lazily Clint looked down at the speaker.

“You’re not allowed up there.” She stood with hands on her hips.

He turned away and went back to watching the planes come in and take off. “Yeah? You know, I’ve been up here for four hours and you’re the first person to say anything, so that tells me, you’re the only one who cares.” He flashed her a smile on the end that she in no way bought.

“You’re physical presents could interfere with the cross signal needed to radio one of the-”

“Okay, okay,” he cut her off, jumping down from the roof of the radio tower, onto the ledge, and then slid down the side with the aid of a climbing cable he’d taken from the training room. He stood next to her and she rolled her eyes.

“What the hell were you doing up there anyway?” she demanded, turning on a heel to go back inside the organization’s headquarters.

“Just some bird watching.” He tried to get her to smile at the slight joke but she was as unyielding as cold steel. He stuck out his hand. “Agent Barton.”

“Commander Maria Hill.” She took his hand in a rough shake. “You new?”

“Something like that.”

“Well then, allow me to give you a word of advice, Agent Barton. Follow orders. It makes everything go a lot smoother.” She stalked off down the hall. In the background, Barton could hear a jet taking off, soaring through the air on metallic wings. He closed his eyes for a brief second and imagined what it would be like to be up there among the wind, hovering at the ultimate height.

 

After dinner he went back to his room to find two boxes sitting on his bed. The first was from Coulson and had a note attached to it reading:

What’s a Hawk without wings?

Inside was a beginner’s course manual for piloting. He had to smile at that. Coulson was trying so hard to get the new agent to assume some kind of identity. But Hawk? Hawkeye? Now there was a name he hadn’t heard in a long time. He set the manual on the desk next to his bed and then examined the second box. This one had no note but he didn’t think it had come from Coulson.

The box was black, more like a case. He unlatched it on the side and opened the lid with the reverence and care of an archeologist. Inside was a strangely shaped object. He picked it up tentatively, grabbing it by its obvious grip. He had an idea of what it was, but it was bent all wrong. Cautiously he gripped one of the extensions and noticed that it moved. He pushed it until it snapped in place and he knew instantly what this was. He extended the other arm of the carbon fiber, black bow in his hands. The string was taunt, with enough tension on it to perfectly match Barton’s draw weight. The grip fit his hand precisely. It felt nice, balanced.

Something was different about the feel of the weapon in his hand. When he pulled back the string, he didn’t get the image of Barn dying that he usually did. Maybe it was the mention of his old stage name, but instead he saw the wild swirling light of the carnival. He saw Trick and the Swordsman trying to cheat each other at cards; Monique dressed and painted in blue and purple, luring in clients to give them a psychic reading. He saw the life before Barn died. And looking in the mirror, he saw the agent after.

The bow felt right. There was no denying that. _What the hell_ , he thought. _I’ll give it a try_.

 

Barefoot. He knew it best to be shirtless and barefoot. Clothes expanded the space of the body. He had learned that a blade could come so much closer than what clothes allowed for. He had been told to train his mind into knowing exactly the amount of room his body occupied. There was so much more room for error, a grace period of space, if one knew the exact placement of every bone, every muscle, and all skin. The feet need to have knowledge of their own strength. Feet could have just as much traction as a pair of leather boots with scientifically enhanced treads.

Around his waist was a hip quiver and the fletching of the arrows tickled his arm as it brushed over them. The training center was colder than what he was used to, causing his skin to rise in gooseflesh. The leather wrist guard was foreign to him; he hadn’t worn it since he was fifteen or so; his aim was true without it by then. But with the fractured bone mending slightly crooked in his arm, the guard would have to be worn to keep his arm and aim straight and take some of the strain off of his shoulder.

He dug his toes into the cold, mildly pliable mat beneath his feet, steadying himself. He flicked the bow and the arms snapped into position above and below the grip. The handle was balanced and the grip was formed to his fist. Try as he may, he could not shake the satisfaction it brought him.

He raised the bow, and drawing an arrow from the quiver on his back, he notched it and pulled back on the string. The familiar strain of the draw weight brought forth memories of the life he had left behind. He could still smell the cigar smoke, taste the sugar of the taffy, feel the sweat dripping down his body.

He lined up his target, extending his holding arm, bending his drawing arm.

Breathe.

He remembered the command as easily as his own name. He loosed the arrow and the center of the paper target sprouted a limb of metal.

He smiled. Despite it all, this was who he was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so begins the next chapter in Clint's life…
> 
> Thank you for reading and commenting, for leaving Kudos, and for bookmarking. Thank you. Thank you so much!


	11. Prelude: 6

I was having the same nightmare that I had nearly every night. But it was clearer, as it was sometimes. I woke up with a start, panting and sitting up in bed; sweat pooled in the hollow of my throat.

I felt her stir beside me. She rolled over and with sleep still in her eyes she laid a gentle hand lightly on my arm.

“Bad dream, babe?” Bobbi asked groggily.

I nodded and settled back down. She curled in closer to me, resting her head on my shoulder and crossing her arm over my chest. I gripped her tightly, thankful that she was there to ward off the lingering fear the nightmare had put in my veins. Burying my lips in her hair, I closed my eyes and focused on getting my heart rate back to normal.

She moaned slightly, a note of contemplation in it. “Your dreams always get rough as soon as it turns cold outside.”

I already knew that. It was an unwanted side effect from the incident when I was five. I’d never told her about that though. Just as I’d never told her what it was I really did at night when she thought I was working a late shift of security duty, that I was The Hawk, the city’s vigilante. One part of The Hawk anyway…

She pulled the blanket up further over our bodies and settled closer to me. I couldn’t get over how right it felt to hold her and how much I hated myself for lying to her, for keeping her in the dark about what I did and who I was.

I remember waking up sick the next morning. A cold. But with my weakened lungs I had to go see a doctor. He’d questioned the bruised ribs and bandaged wound on my shoulder. I shrugged it off and chalked it up to working security detail. He’d rolled his eyes and gave me a prescription that I knew wouldn’t work as well as Monique’s cure. I missed that: her herbal remedy that knocked any sickness to the curb. She’d always given it to me when I was coming down with something in the circus, which happened far more often than I’d care to admit. Jacques always hated how sick I got and attributed to weakness. He’d eventually make me stronger, but no matter what I was still annoyingly acceptable to colds.

I hated being sick.

I hated having nightmares about ice when the air turned cold.

I hated not telling Bobbi why both of those things happened or that I spent some nights running around the city wiping out drug dealers in my own personal crusade to right a wrong I’d been unable to right before.

I hated how she found out about it.

 

We’d been compromised; someone had called the police and cops were now swarming the building. I had to get out of there. Trick had already left his post at the screen – we took turns running and monitoring to keep the authorities off our trail. It worked most of the time since descriptions wouldn’t match and The Hawk could be two places at once.

I’d already busted the window, my hand bleeding from the shattered glass when I heard it. A gun cocked behind me, and the voice that broke my heart said, “Don’t you dare.”

I froze.

“Put your hands up slowly and turn around.” She was doing well with keeping her voice calm and even but I knew better. I knew her. Bobbi was freaking out inside. _Just wait, honey_.

I did as she asked, keeping quiet.

“Reach up slowly and drop the hood.”

I shook my head but she insisted.

“Drop it!” she screamed.

I grabbed the back of the fabric at the crown of my black hoodie and pulled down slowly. I watched her eyes take it in, her brain wrestle with its meaning, and her heart shatter at the realization.

The gun lowered as she barely whispered, “No.”

“Bobbi, I can explain,” I pleaded, taking a step towards her.

The gun was back in position. “No! No, you lied to me. Clint, you… lied. About everything. About-”      

“Not about us,” I interrupted.

She wouldn’t look at me. A shaky heartbeat passed and the sounds of arriving law enforcement grew closer. Her eyes finally met mine and I’d have a new image to add to the nightmares. The gun dropped.

“Go,” she ordered.

“Bobbi-”

“Go!”

I shot an arrow out the window and rode the cable down to the safe spot Trick and I decided to meet at. I turned once to see if she was still there. She wasn’t.

I never went back, never saw her again. But that look in her eyes still haunts me.

I hated disappointing her.

I hated not being who she thought I was.


	12. Chapter 6: The Monarch Effect

Two weeks of rigorous training. Two weeks of his muscles remembering what Jacques had taught him so many years ago. Two weeks of learning new tactics, of becoming the operative he once was promised to be. Two weeks of practice in the range with the new bow that so perfectly fit his grip it almost concerned him. Two weeks and it all came crashing down.

The withdrawals hit so hard, so fast he almost couldn’t breathe. He was aiming an arrow when he noticed the sharp, stabbing pain in his shoulder. He dropped his shot and rubbed at the aching muscle. But the pain did not go away; it only got worse. He felt his knees give out and he fell on the mat hard. His head was buzzing and his stomach churned. He vaguely remembered crawling toward the door but after that his vision blacked out.

He knew he was shivering. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. Distant hands were hooking up a heart monitor; the squeeze of a blood pressure cuff was a dull hug on his bicep. His vision blurred and trailed so that all movement had a shadowed path behind it. And then the bugs began to crawl.

His skin was on fire with them. Where the last of the blisters were healing, he was tearing at his flesh with his nails. Rough hands grabbed his to get him to stop. They strapped him down. He screamed as they inserted a needle into his arm; a vicious flashback to S.T.R.I.K.E. invaded his thoughts and he tried to lash out. But he was weighted down with sedation. His blue-grey eyes shut as the oxygen mask covered his mouth.

Coulson and Fury were on standby.

“What do we do now, Sir?”

Fury stood watching the sedated agent through the clinic widow, arms behind his back. “He hasn’t had an injection in two weeks. And he was on dose twelve. That’s a hard time to stop cold.”

“The program packet said that there were coaxing meds designed to ease the participants back into their ‘pre-program selves,’ as it said.” Coulson looked up at the director. “I don’t suppose those were distributed.”

“I’m afraid with Agent Stiers’s coping strategy of offing her failing participants, I doubt the meds were even made, let alone distributed.”

“So what do we do, Sir?” Coulson asked again.

Fury took in a deep breath. “We don’t have much in the way of options. We can either wait it out, see if he comes out of shock and resume from there; try and scrounge up the rest of his needed eight doses and finish him out on the program; or, if worst come to worst, we follow in Stiers’s footsteps and put an end to her program once and for all.” The director turned away from the window and began down the hall. “Shame, really. He was showing real potential.”

Coulson followed, knowing full well that, although it had been a valiant effort, the reality was that if Barton couldn’t wake up or control himself without the serum that S.T.R.I.K.E. had given him, it would be over.

Fury stopped suddenly.

“Sir?” Coulson asked.

“Keep an eye on him, agent. I have to go ask a favor of a friend.”

 

It was raining in San Francisco when Director Fury got off the jet and it continued to pour down as he made his way to the West Coast Research Facility. It was getting dark and most of the workers had gone home. Her office hadn’t been that hard to find and a little hacking had gotten him a late appointment on the books. She was just packing up to leave when he stepped through the door.

“I’m sorry,” she began in a hustle, “but we’re closing for tonight, any more business-”

“Check your schedule, doctor. We have an appointment.”

Her thin brows knotted as she looked at her PDA in astonishment. “I’m sorry. I think there’s been a mistake.”

“You and I have a mutual friend, doctor. And he needs your help.” Fury pulled out a small vial from his pocket and tossed it to her. She caught it and cautiously read the label, her frightened eyes not easily leaving the dark director.

“Barton,” she choked back. But then her eyes turned fierce. “Look, I don’t know who you are or what you’re playing at, but-”

“Dr. Morse-”

“It’s Hunter.” She nervously tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “It’s Hunter now; I -I got married.” She showed her fingers as if for proof.

“I’m aware, Dr. Hunter.”

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

Fury shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “Just a passing shadow.” He indicated the vial of blood now in the doctor’s hands. “I need you to analyze that sample and make about a dozen weaker versions of the drug you’ll find present as per instruction of these notes.” He held out a file that she reluctantly took and scanned over.

She scoffed, an unnatural sound that lingered in the stale office air. “What has the Hawk gotten himself into this time? More vigilante work taking down drug lords?”

Fury was becoming impatient. He sat down on the couch in her office and took notice of the doctor taking a step closer to the phone to call in case of an emergency. He pulled out the big guns to get this “meeting” over with. He had other things to attend to. “Barton was on an official assignment when he took down those dealers,” he lied. “He was doing his duty just as you should be now. Make me those weaker doses and you will be serving your country just as he did.”

The young doctor was taken aback a second. “Wait. Clint’s a spy?”

“I’m afraid that’s classified.” He stood up. “Get me what I’ve asked for doctor. I’ll have someone by tomorrow to pick them up.”

“Tomorrow! I’m afraid that’s not enough time-”

“Then make time, doctor.” A short pause for effect. “Clint Barton is dying.” Sadly, that was not a direct lie.

Dr. Hunter bowed her head. “I’ll do what I can. But you have to promise me that I’ll never hear that name again so long as I live. Okay? I cannot forget that lying bastard enough.”

The director nodded and made his way for the door. “Thank you, Dr. Hunter. You will be compensated for your efforts.” He stopped a second and proceeded to say, “Thank you, too, for letting him go that night.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “It was more than he deserved.”

The director took in her stance and risked one last statement. “It’s amazing how often you’ll find, Bobbi, that the line between the good guys and the bad guys is very blurred.”

She barely reacted but he could tell her eyes soaked up his words.

“Good night, Doctor. And thank you.”      

 

Barton was never told were the meds came from, but they worked. One pill a week until the bottle was empty. He was still on them when he was sent on his first mission for the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement Logistics Division. It had been different from what he’d thought. The recon was easier than he imagined, but the assassination…

The guy had deserved to die a thousand times over. But loosing that arrow had been a hard moment. In one shot he was going to confirm himself a killer. He already knew he was; Jacques had known he was the moment he’d come from the forest after starving for four days; Barn had known the instant he’d seen his brother’s poisoned arrow fly into his chest. But actually accepting that identity had been more difficult than he’d have liked.

The arrow had flown, the man had fallen, and the mission had been a success.

In a short amount of time, the new agent began to earn himself a title. A master assassin. The American Hawk. Hawkeye. His name and trademark arrows left their tracks in foreign countries. And they were not without an air of fear.

He was an agent, a figure they sent out when even shadows were not to be seen. But he was also alone. The organization’s other agents were a force of many and he could never quite shake the feeling that he was being kept separate from them. One glare from Commander Hill helped confirm that maybe he was. So he kept an eye on her from his usual distance. He almost had to smile when he realized how similar she was to Lt. Col. Lacey Day. Strong and very independent, yet all about teamwork. He was keeping his watch when the start of what would prove to be his most difficult mission yet surfaced.

The agents were sitting at their comms and stations, overlording the world from screens and keyboards. Hill was pacing between them, awaiting any disturbance that she would disburse immediate action for.

An alarm buzzed momentarily and the scene erupted with motion. Call outs and codes were burst up into the air like excited little particles, the bubbles in champagne. Clint Barton trained his eyes on the space below. He couldn’t quite hear what all was going on – his ear had officially gone silent once he was finished with the meds; his shoulder had had some work done to get it back to functioning “normally,” pins and screws included.

“What’s the sender info?” Hill commanded.

“It’s encrypted. But we’re picking up hits in the database. We’ve seen this username before.”

Barton tilted his head to hear better.

“Confirmation. We’ve got a hit. It’s someone by the name of Monarch.”

Instantly Barton left his perch and made his way down to the scene below. If they’d gotten any information on Monarch, he was going to be there to take that son of a bitch down. His team deserved that much.

“Hill, we’ve got live feed. It sounds like there’s a phone conversation.”

“Pull it up to the speaker,” the assistant director demanded, her eyes intent. Monarch was a repeat offender and she was not going to let him slip away again.

The speakers around the room roared to life with the conversation. It was in a different language, Russian by the sound of it. Hill ordered a translator to come down at once. “And tell them to hurry. Every second we waste is more time for this bastard to escape.” The conversation rattled on and a visible frustration consumed Hill. “Please tell me someone is recording.”

“Recording and tracing, ma’am.”

“They’re talking about a deal, settling a debt.” Hill looked over to see Barton standing next to her on the bridge slightly raised above the screens and the computers.

“So you know Russian now,” she stated flatly, unimpressed and annoyed at him.

“Russian, Ukrainian mix, actually. Learned it from a knife thrower with the circus.”

Hill glared at him. “What else are they saying?”

He listened a moment. There were two voices, one male and one female. They were keeping things light, not going into too much depth. The man asked the woman what she was going to wear to the dinner Friday night. She responded with a very tempting laugh that settled into Barton’s bones. He’d never forget that sound as it reverberated off the walls. She described the dress in detail and Clint’s brows shot up at the revealing nature of evening wear she was depicting.

“What’s going on, Barton?”

“Hill, I’m not sure if this is a security threat or just casual phone sex.”

“Excuse me? Barton, this is no time for jokes-”

“I’m not joking, now shut up.”

The woman laughed again and mentioned something about a room. He could only imagine what would happen in that room but based on the context of the last thirty seconds of phone chatter, he gathered that it was not going to be…clean. The conversation ended and the trace was incomplete. But they had a recording and Hill had Barton ready to translate.

“I want everything, Barton. And if you pull some prank about what they say-”

“Hill,” he addressed with stern eyes. “Monarch killed my team at S.T.R.I.K.E. I want to catch him as much as you do. If this is a lead, then I have no reason to mess it up.” He smirked at her just enough to ruffle some feathers. “Beside, this stuff is too good to make up.”

The two went through the transcript line by line. Hill glared at him when some of the more steamy bits came up, but in conclusion the pair decided that it had been a conversation between a government official and an escort.

“But why the hell would Monarch’s name be tagged to this?” Hill asked outraged.

“Maybe he wanted us to find it,” Barton offered.

“Why?”

Clint shrugged. “Don’t know. But I think it’s worth a look.” He turned to leave when Hill stopped him.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“He mentioned dinner. And there’s officially only one prestigious dinner happening this Friday night in the Moscow region that such a diplomat and his voluptuous company would attend. Ten bucks says they are.”

“They might be, but you are not.”

He stopped and stared at her.

“You’re an assassin, Barton. If someone needs their head cut off, we’ll let you know.”

“I’m an agent, Hill. Same as you. And if this has anything to do with Monarch, I’m taking the case.”

She scoffed. “Really? Barton, if you have a personal connection to a mission, it’s automatically out of your jurisdiction.”

“Look,” he started, “you’ll need an operative who knows the language. Who knows how to blend in.”

“Yes, the subtle bow and arrow will go nicely with Armani.” She crossed her arms. “Do you even know how to behave at a function of such high caliber?”

“Yeah, Hill. I do. You swish around a little brandy, talk to people about politics, their jobs, and get out of there with your target.” She rolled her eyes but he went on. “Look, somehow Monarch is tied to this. He wouldn’t make a mistake so simple and get caught without having a plan. He’s trying to get our attention.”

“Why?”

“Because of the Hawk," a new voice rang out. Both Barton and Hill looked up to see Fury descending the stairs to approach the slightly raised platform.

"Sir?" Hill asked politely, though, still confused.

"Think about it, Hill. Monarch was supposed to take out all of the S.T.R.I.K.E. sub-group. Then he starts hearing rumors about a new spy with the same characteristics of one of his assumed-dead targets. So he puts his hook in the water and starts fishing."

"So do we take a bite?" Barton asked.

Fury's brows narrowed. "Putting you out there for him to so easily catch isn't the first plan of attack I had in mind. You don't get the fish without teasing him a little." He turned to Hill. "Get a squad together to-"

"With all due respect, Sir," Barton interrupted, "you need me to take this mission."

A hard stare came through with his one available eye. "Do I?"

"This is between Monarch and me. If you send me out, let me do this, and something goes wrong, you'll only be out one agent. Monarch will have finished his job, taken his final shot. But if you send a group, he'll only kill them. And those are deaths we both don't need on our hands."

The director seemed a little put off with Barton's answer suggesting that Fury had red in his ledger. But he also knew the agent was right. This did not need to turn into a blood bath. With a shake of his head and an almost-smile spread across his lips, the director said, "Suit up, Clint."

The spy smiled to himself.

But before he left, Director Fury cautioned, "Remember, though, Barton, that if anything happens to you, we don't claim you."

That got a grin from Hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Bobbi is an agent, but lets just say she hasn't been recruited…yet.   
> And who is Monarch? The world may never know!!! (You will, just not in this chapter…)
> 
> Thank you to those who read, comment, Kudos, and bookmark. I am eternally grateful!


	13. Prelude: 7

I had worn a tie only one other time in my life and it was when I was ten years old and the foster family had insisted that the kids dress up for Christmas dinner with the in-laws. The dress shirt had been two sizes too big and the pants were far too short in the leg. But I distinctly remembered the choking, suffocating sensation of the tie. It had bothered me all night and I’d tried to loosen it little by little throughout the whole dinner. But I’d gotten caught and the hostess had scolded me and tightened the tie back to its original position.

Barn had recognized the worried look in my eyes; he knew his little brother –who could take a punch from kids twice my size, who could launch a pebble thirty feet and have it hit it’s mark, who could run, climb, and talk back with hostility and ease – could not stand the idea of not being able to breathe. So he had made a moan, quit eating, and pretended to not feel well, all the while nudging me under the table. I had caught the rouse and offered to put Barn to bed and take care of him. The hostess had agreed begrudgingly.

We had made our way to our room; I’d secretly snatched a dinner roll for us to enjoy together. The second we were out of sight, I had undone and slung off the tie. It was like my lungs had been inflated back to full capacity. I’d smiled and thanked Barn, giving him the larger half of the roll. He’d taken it replying, "You owe me." But the debt would go on unpaid.

All those debts went unpaid. They’d been forgotten until the night I held him and watched him die, my arrow in his heart.


	14. Chapter 7: A Funny Thing Happened In Moscow

In the expensive three-piece suit, tie included, the Hawk felt the urgent need to breathe. He'd gotten used to the constricting feeling of the tailored jacket, the snug sensation of the vest. But the tie was still choking him and it was a feeling he could not abide. He kept scolding himself to not look so fidgety, to not constantly tug at his collar. But he felt like he was breathing into wet tissue paper, the substance clinging to his face, closing his lungs. The chilly Russian air wasn't helping either. The remembrance of that awful night when he was five kept coming over him in waves.

_Enough_ , he told himself.  _Pull yourself together, Barton._  With a full, deep breath, he calmed his nerves and strode up the steps to the ancient looking courthouse.

The dinner was a charity one. Everyone invited had donated some large amount of money to some fund that fed blind orphans or something. He didn't catch all the details. The place was exquisitely decorated and the music, chamber. The attendants were milling about, daintily sipping champagne and pretending to nibble  _hors d'oeuvres_ _._ Barton had never felt more out of place.

He snatched a glass of champagne to use as a prop, to give his hands something to do, to hold on to. He wouldn't drink it, not while on a mission. His watchful eyes scanned the grand hall. The stark contrast of black eveningwear against the creamy marble was more than noticeable. Even though the temperature outside was dropping rapidly as winter stretched out his icy hand from the wrist of the tundra, many of the female guests wore revealing, and in some cases even daring, gowns. Barton didn't necessarily mind the view either. But it did complicate finding his target escort and accompanying gentleman politician.  

He walked around keeping a pulse on the scene. He had no idea what the escort or politician looked like, but he knew the laugh. He had gone his whole life relying on his eyes to do the work, but now his ears would be the key. And one of them was gone. He hated that. He felt unprepared. Pale.

He closed his eyes for a second. A thousand whispers siphoned into his good ear. Glasses clinked against precious metal rings, tongues discussed politics in Russian, German, Ukrainian, Chinese. It was muddled and muted and blending together. He took a deep breath, concentrated harder.

There it was. A high note above the rest. He’d spent precious time trying to memorize that sound: her laugh. She was here. Now he needed to find her.

He had no idea what she looked like and with only one ear to go off of, direction tended to be an issue. But she was here. And she was his only lead on Monarch.

He put his vigilant eyes to work, scanning the crowd, hawk and prey. He tried to match the direction of the sound as best as he could. He narrowed down the field. Another pearl of laughter seeped into his bone marrow.

He spotted her.

She was young, blonde – though he suspected it was died – and had amazing green eyes. She was dressed in an elegant yet less than conservative gown and proudly boasted a string of diamonds around her neck and scattered in her hair. The man she accompanied was rotund and had a receding hairline. His suit was expensive but not un-godly so, and his shoes were not shined. On his wrist he wore a gold watch.

The night wore on: dancing, speeches. And the whole time Barton watched them, paid attention to how she clung to him and teased his skin in the way only a professional escort would. And the more he kept his eye on them, the more he felt like he’d seen the diplomat before. Barton casually put a wireless earpiece in his ear to communicate with S.H.I.E.L.D. Slipping the phone from his pocket, he slyly took a picture of the man and sent it to Coulson. Within a minute he got back a reply: “US Ambassador William Kosinko.”

 _Why would Monarch send us an email about an ambassador and his escort?_   _Unless…_

He reasoned quietly, “I think we stumbled onto an assassination plot.”

“Based on what intel?”

He looked at them again. He had no proof to back it up; it was a gut feeling. But why in the hell would Monarch give them a chance to stop an assassination of a diplomat? Was this all still a trap to lure him out into the open? If so, what better trap than one with politics involved to mess up everything…

The party began to fade out, people left in small groups until the room was noticeably emptier. The ambassador and his company left. Barton followed.

“We’re on the move, Coulson.”

“Watch yourself, Barton. And remember, our priority is Monarch. Do not engage in any way until you know how he’s involved.”

“Even if it means letting this guy die?” he challenged.

There was a stretch of silence before Coulson replied, “Orders may change based on information. Get me some intel as to why you think this is some assassination plot and we’ll reevaluate.”

He sounded angry, pissed off. Barton needed something to convince Coulson, to convince S.H.I.E.L.D. God, this was a lot more complicated than his typical missions.

He followed the politician and his escort to a hotel. It was fancy, the kind that actually hired security and took measures to ensure privacy. He watched as they turned into the elaborate door and kept walking. The building next to the hotel had a fire escape that he climbed. He didn’t know what floor they were on, though, so he stopped and waited, examining the windows for movement, for signs.

He needed evidence.

Ten minutes passed. Coulson checked in with Barton, asking if he’d found anything. Just as he was about to say “no,” a silenced  _bang_  floated on the air. With only one ear it would have been directionless for him, but his eyes were keen. A flicker of shadow and then a rope. A slim figure sliding down with ease and grace.  

“Do shots fired count as evidence,” he whispered, taking quiet steps downwards in hope of catching up to the escaping shooter.

“What’s going on, Barton?” Urgency was not missing from Coulson’s tone.

“I think our politician is dead.”

“And the shooter?”

“I’m going after-”

“No! Barton, do not engage. If Monarch had orchestrated this, then the last thing we need is for you to take the bait. Check on the ambassador. Is he alive?”

“I don’t know, Phil.” He edged it with sarcasm. “I’m not in the building. I’m hiding in the shadows because I’m not allowed to engage.” He swung down, skipping most of the last steps. He ran to the rope that the assassin had used to escape and followed it up with his eyes. Sirens blared in the distance and he figured someone had called in the shots. But the person who had fired them was long gone and now he was in the alley standing under the rope the killer had used.

 _Let’s_ not _get arrested tonight,_  he told himself, running away from the scene and heading back up the fire escape in the off chance that the killer was still in range. He saw her. She was a few buildings away, gracefully running over rooftops. She stopped once and turned and somehow he knew she’d spotted him. It was far too dark for either one of them to distinguish any details about the other, but he knew her gaze had been on him. She took off running again.

Figuring he was already in the suit, he pickpocket a badge off of an officer and entered the hotel room under the guise of being a fed. FBI wouldn’t be too hard to pull off; the guy was a U.S. diplomat. He threw in some made-up case and backstory to make it convincing. They bought it, though, a little reluctant.

He did a sweep of the room. The ambassador was dead. Single, small caliber bullet at point blank range. His escort was nowhere to be found and there was no evidence that she had even been there.  _Oh she is_  so  _the killer,_  he thought.  _And she’s good._  He had to admire her work. The bullet entry was clean cut, the blood spatter minimal. She’d killed before; that much was obvious. So they were looking at a professional.

But why in the hell would Monarch link them to this case? Was he toying with them? Was this all some game? He didn’t get it. If he was supposed to be Monarch’s last target then why have him get involved in an assassination?

Not finding an answer he excused himself, contacted Coulson, and filled him in on the case. His only response was that he’d discuss it with Fury and report back to him later. “Get some sleep, Barton. You might have far more to do tomorrow.”

He ended the secure call and Clint decided it was time for a drink.

 

Jacques had been a connoisseur of wine. Trick had gone for rum, beer, and ale. Clint had always been more for whiskey and vodka. He loved the burn in the back of his throat and the sweet, dizzying effect that washed over him.

The bar was dimly lit and he really didn’t fit in since he was still in the suit. But the Jameson went down anyway and after a few rounds he charged a hotel room to the S.H.I.E.L.D. shell-company corporate card and crashed.

By morning he had a new assignment: find the killer from last night and take her down.

 _Easier said than done, Fury._  He had only a vague idea what she looked like, no idea who she was working for, or where he would even start to find her. But what he did have was a slight hangover and the police badge still in his pocket from last night. Sighing he opened up his duffel bag, dug around to the false bottom, lifted it, and pulled out his stash of I.D.s. He decided to keep the fed routine up and selected the appropriate falsified data. He took a shower, letting the steam iron out the wrinkles in his suit from sleeping in it.

He grabbed a bite to eat from the breakfast provided downstairs and went back to the scene of the crime, flashing his badge to enter the premises. They didn’t seem too keen on letting him in at first, but he put on his FBI hot-head act and made a big show so that they’d let him in just to get rid of him.

He took another look around the room and felt an overwhelming amount of work hit him dead on. He knew a professional hit such as this wouldn’t leave much in the way of evidence, if it left anything at all. But his eyes were acuter than most and he’d use that.  _Okay, Barton,_  he told himself, rubbing his hands together,  _let’s do this._

 

It took him a week. Seven days to strand together the bits and pieces and come up with a name. Seven days of observation, interrogation, and sleepless nights with redacted documentation. Seven nights. Seven hotels. Seven bars. But he found her… Kind of.

He knew who he was dealing with in the sense that a rabbit knows how to deal with a snake. The animal is painfully aware of the dangers the reptile can bring, but has no idea how or when it will happen.   

He knew her name, some of her dark, twisted history. But most importantly he knew her latest location. And he had his kill order. Zipping up his bag and slinging his folded bow into his concealed quiver, he left his hotel and made his way for Budapest.

The Black Widow was his kill.     

 

He watched her from his perch high in the rafters of the warehouse. She was tied to a chair and being roughly interrogated by her captors. He smirked at it, knowing she was working them; she could be out of those sloppily tied ropes and beating the shit out of the group of three men in no time. But from her position she was asking all the right questions to get the intel she needed. The conversation was in Hungarian and she spoke it fluently. Clint had to admit he was impressed by her language abilities; she seemed able to speak them all perfectly.

He didn’t know much Hungarian. Klaus Hartmann, one of the animal tamers in Carson’s Carnival, had taught him a little, but the man didn’t talk much in general, let alone in his native tongue. But Barton knew enough to comprehend the snippets of conversation going on below him.

The Black Widow was accusing the leader of her captors of swindling her employer out of some cut of drug and arms money, while the main captor was shifting the blame onto Widow saying she stole the money herself. The ordeal seemed routine, mundane even, to the Hawk, but it was the skill with which the Black Widow manipulated the questions to her advantage that intrigued him. She was good.

Really good.

 _And really dangerous,_  he reminded himself. Sighing at what needed to be done, he loaded his bow with three arrows and aimed so that they’d take out the Widow’s captors in one shot. He steadied his breath, added some draw weight, tensed up the string, and aimed.

The moment right before he let the arrows fly, though, the Black Widow was out of her ropes and taking out her captors with impressive speed and vigor. She flipped about, kicking and hitting, taking out men twice her borderline petite size with a simple swipe of her leg and an extended chokehold between her thighs. Barton let the shot decay, momentarily too enamored to concentrate enough to shoot. He had to shake his head to regain his focus and line her up in a shot, ready with steady hands to take her out. But as his gaze followed her he became overwhelmingly aware of a single thought plaguing his mind.

Three words.

_What a waste._

And try as he may he couldn’t shake that from his head. This woman was amazing! She had talents and skills that would be criminal to cut off so short. She was his target and he was supposed to kill her, but doing so seemed so wrong. She was on a mission.  _It would be rude to kill her on a job, right?_  he asked in a desperate attempt to convince himself that holding back was okay.   

Within less than a minute, the Black Widow had taken out her captors, killing them all with only herself as a weapon.

But now she was alone and unaware of Agent Barton perched up in the rafters. She seemed to study her work for a moment before turning around to leave.

And that’s when he decided. Switching out his arrows for a different one from his quiver, he realigned his shot and fired.

She couldn’t be sure but she’d thought she’d heard an odd sound. The next moment was swallowed up in a foggy blur. The last thing she knew she was falling towards the ground.

 

When she came to, her vision was blurry at first, but settled into the sight that matched the smell. Tall steel rafters with thick holding pins and rivets lined the tin-siding walls. The place was barely lit by pale sunlight streaming in from the grimy windows high above. The concrete floor below her was stained with water and god knows what else. She was sitting on a wooden chair, her hands tied in expert knots behind her back and looped around a supporting pole in the center of the familiar warehouse. A small trickle of blood from her nose had clotted and dried on her upper lip. The coppery smell combined with the ungodly rank of seawater and dead fish with accents of oil and gasoline.

Her vision was clear enough now to see the bodies she’d taken out earlier dispersed on the floor in the corner. Before her was a hooded figure. Her  _new_  captor, she presumed, and probably the source of her earlier unease at the sensation of being watched.

She quickly assessed his abilities by his body. Strong, definitely strong with rippling biceps and protruding veins covered by sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His back was towards her and she could see the muscles in it through his black jacket. She noted the cloth quiver slung across his left shoulder and down towards his right side.

He would be quick too. His legs were like his arms, powerful. The dark cargo pants were tucked into black leather combat boots, most likely hiding a knife. A standard issue Glock was strapped to his mid-thigh. The quiver, knife, and gun all said excellent marksmanship. The careful, tense stance he was in said agent. And the muscle development and patience said experience. She’d have to be careful. She knew this kind of man. And she knew she’d have to be stronger, quicker, and smarter than he was.

The light from outside brightened just enough for more of the shadows to be eaten away and she saw the accompanying piece to the quiver: a bow. It was sleek and black and loaded loosely with a single arrow.

“You going to shoot me?” She asked in broken, Russian-accented English for effect.

“Those are my orders,” he replied, keeping his back to her. She noticed the string on the bow take on a little more draw weight. She’d have to think quickly. She began working in the ropes around her wrists but they were expertly, intricately, tied.

She tried to stall. “The great American Hawk. I hear tell of you in circles of other men. The bow is dead giveaway. If you want to be secret, choose new weapon.”

An arrow was jutting out of the chair’s back, centimeters from her shoulder, before she even finished her sentence. Forget quick, this man was lightning.

She laughed a little out of defeat at the un-budging ropes. “You kill me, yes?”

“Those are my orders,” he repeated, his voice a little more strained this time.

“Then tell me, why am I still alive? Hmm? Why you not kill me?”

The draw on the bow eased to the point of extinction. Carefully he slid the new, loaded arrow back into the quiver and slung the bow across his back. He turned around slowly, deliberately. By the pale light from the windows above she saw him reach up and pull back the hood that covered his face.

She would never know why that moment would forever stay on her mind. Maybe it was because she would be one of the few that would see the American Hawk’s eyes. Or maybe it was the eyes themselves: intense blue-grey eyes that she could never deny being beautiful even if they were the last thing she saw. She was caught off guard at the sight of the Hawk, for he was not what she had anticipated. Sandy brown hair with the slightest tinges of red and grey undertones, a strong jaw accompanied by matching stubble, those fierce and expressive eyes; he had a very weathered look in his features, features that were displaying an odd emotion that crossed between pain and aggravation, and disbelief and confusion.

“’Cause I can’t.”

Her brows narrowed at this testimony. “Can’t?”

He just stared at her, or rather through her. She could see his mind struggling, wrestling with his predicament. She kept working on the ropes that bound her wrists. She shifted her position, appearing more relaxed.

“Don’t have nerve?” she asked, pouting her lower lip a little in mockery. She followed it up with a sly smile.

He smirked back, turned his back to her, and quicker than she ever thought possible, loaded and loosed an arrow that landed in the chair’s wooden leg flush with hers. He’d barely scraped her skin and a small line of crimson dripped down her calf.

He shook his head. “No, it’s not nerve. And if you keep messing with those ropes, you’ll find out just how much nerve I have.”

She stopped trying to work them loose and stared back at him wide-eyed. He’d seen her squirming. Untrained eyes might have missed it, but he’d been on the other end enough to know the nearly imperceptible movement.

She scoffed. “You have orders. Shoot me.”

His eyes were still on her. “I told you, I can’t.”

“Then what are you going to do?”    

He shrugged. “Call it in that I have you in custody, leave you off at base, and if they still want you shot, they can find someone else to do it. Meanwhile, I’m going to take the three weeks I have before my new contract gets cleared and try to hunt down a lead on the bastard who took out my unit.”

She laughed with an edge of cruelty. “Personal vendetta trumps orders for you,  _da_?” Her eyes took on a sarcastic edge. “You make good soldier.”

“I’m not a soldier,” he insisted, his slate blue eyes sharpening.

“Then what are you? Spy? Agent? Errand boy?”

“Maybe all of the above. To be honest, I don’t really know. Nor do I care. I have a job; they give me details, and I do that job.”

“But you not do job. You defy orders and not shoot me.” 

“’Cause I can’t.” He stepped closer to her and squatted down on his haunches, leveling up their eyes. Despite not knowing the name of it or why he was even searching, he saw in them then what Stiers that seen in him. She looked at him curiously. He rubbed at his jaw a second before starting, “My orders are to take down the operative who pumped lead into a U.S. diplomat last week. Politically, we can’t touch Red Room because politically they don’t exist, but you already know that. So the best we can do is send the message that the slaughtering of U.S representatives is unacceptable and will be dealt with. You’re that message.” He stopped for a moment, looking at her gold-green eyes. “But see here’s the catch. Your orders were to take out the diplomat; mine are to take out you. Following my orders makes you following yours justifiable. It justifies the operative they send to kill me.” He sighed and held her eyes with his. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

All she could do was stare at him. While most of her wanted to escape, shove a bullet in his brain, and be on her way, there was a part of her that was frozen, captivated by what he was saying. It  _had_  just been orders to shoot the diplomat; she didn’t even blink when he crumbled at her bullet. She understood that the Hawk landing an arrow in her heart was just business, just orders. But she grasped the cycle he was describing and agreed. If he ever got around to doing his job, her employers would send an operative out to off him. It worked well that way. But it would never stop.

The American Hawk stood up, pinching his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. “I don’t know; maybe I’m just crazy.” He played with the rounded tip of his bow before suddenly tossing it up lightly, correcting his hand’s position on the handle, notching an arrow, and aiming it at her heart. It’d be easy, simple. His fingers would come off the string, the tip would sail, her skin would split, and the arrow would sink into muscle that would spill a great amount of blood easily. The kill would be so damn easy. He could feel the sturdiness of his thumb pressed into his cheekbone; his fingers were far from fatigued at holding the string. The shot was lined up perfectly. She wasn’t moving, just staring at him. There was no fear, no trepidation, no begging, no laughter, no remorse, no acceptance, no spite in her eyes. They were blank, casual. Observing.

He let the shot decay, relaxed his drawing arm, and tucked the arrow back into the quiver. Her eyes didn’t leave him, nor his hers. He slung the bow on his back and approached her. Her expression had shifted only barely but he could sense the trace of awe in her feelings.

“You not going to shoot me,  _da_?”

He shook his head. “I guess not.” Touching the side of his ear activated his communicator. “Coulson.”

“Barton? Where have you been? What happened?”

“The situation changed.”

“How so?”

“I’ll explain when I get back. Just send a jet to the wharf.” He glanced at her. “And Coulson, make sure it has room for two.”     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one was kind of long and a little shaky and sort of back-and-forth, but it sets up the second half of this story so…
> 
> Thanks again to those who read, comment, Kudos, and bookmark!!!


	15. прелюдия: 1

I remember the heat the most. I remember the blazing light, the choking ash, and the falling beams. But I remember the heat the most. Nothing I’ve ever experienced has been as hot as that terrible heat was. It surrounded me, enveloped me. I could not escape it. It tore at my clothes, my hair, and my skin. It was all consuming and horrifying.

There is one thing I remember almost as much as the heat and that is his hand. He gripped my thin arm and pulled me from the burning wreckage that, moments ago, was my home, my life.

Ivan.

I never knew his last name or if he even had one. He told me he knew my parents and I’d later find out that he worked with them. I’d also find out that my father was not a factory worker, that my mother did not work part time at a small clinic, and that I was an arrangement, a cover to make them look more like a normal family instead of the KGB operatives they really were. They were told to get married and have a child to help their cover and so they did. And although I don’t know if there was any love between my parents, they certainly had affection for me. I was their little girl with Mom’s red hair and Dad’s iron will. Head strong and restless, I was a handful. But their cover was solid.

Or so they thought.

For a long time I thought the fire was an accident. But I was wrong.

Someone had murdered my parents and Ivan was sent to replace them.

But with my natural talent, orphan status, and young age, I was a perfect candidate. Red Room took me in. Ivan took me there.

Most of what follows is blurry. I know they conditioned us, pulled us out and made us into something new. I did what I was told because they told me what to do. I never asked questions, never hesitated. I did absolutely anything and everything in order to complete a mission: seducing targets, sleeping with them, interrogating them, killing them, saving assets, destroying lives.

I was one of twenty-eight. But only I was given the name Black Widow. And all of my arranged relationships ended with red in my ledger.

Countless mornings I’d wake up with no memory of the where the mud on my boots came from nor the blood on my hands. It was all a blur. And the only moment of clarity, the only sharp point, was his arrow aimed at my heart and the blue-grey of his eyes.

The history I know as mine may not be real; it may only be the last thing they programmed me with. But he’s not. The American Hawk sparing my life is real.


	16. Chapter 8: The Russian Redhead

The instant they saw her, the security team seized and detained the once Red Room operative. Instantly, Agent Barton was summoned for questioning. Instantly he knew he’d have to explain. It all happened so fast, but he was prepared for this. He expected to catch some shit for disobeying orders. How much was what he underestimated.

Director Fury lived up to his name.

“You bring a Russian agent onto base! Are you crazy? She could be casing this place, learning its secrets. Do you know she now has a read on this place? She knows its location, how to get here, what we have. You have single handedly given an enemy intelligence community all the information they need to take us down and the whole of America with it.”

“Then don’t let her get back,” the Hawk reasoned.

“You’re suggesting to keep her here?” His disbelief was prominent.  

Coulson tapped on the glass door to Fury’s right and entered. He nodded politely to Agent Barton then sat down on the desk. 

Barton shrugged, continuing. “You can still kill her; just don’t ask me to do it.”

“But we did ask you to do it,” Fury insisted, “It was an order, an order you knowingly disobeyed. A kill order for an operative that slaughtered a U.S. diplomat in cold blood, and you violated it.”

“I made a different call.”

“’A different call’? Where the hell did you learn that it was okay to ‘make a different call’ on a direct order given to you by a superior?”

The Hawk held a steely gaze on the director. “Sir,” he began evenly, calmly, “my contract is still with a sub-group at S.T.R.I.K.E. meaning any order given to me has to be cleared by the superior officers of that S.T.R.I.K.E. sub-group, and as of thirty-three weeks ago that’s me. I made a different call, and because that contract still overrides yours, I didn’t violate anything.”

“Technically he is correct, Sir,” Coulson added quietly.    

Director Fury shot a glare at Coulson and then stared the other agent down. “Regardless if you ‘quantify’ your actions or not, you’ve still brought an enemy operative on to base.”

“And I already told you, kill her. I don’t care.”

The director had had enough. He got up from his desk and approached the agent. “If you truly don’t care, Agent Barton, then why didn’t you send an arrow through her heart?”

“Because I won’t turn the wheel.”

Fury indicated with his hand for the Hawk to go on.

“They shoot, we shoot, they shoot back. That’s how it goes, and it doesn’t end. Killing her would only set that cycle in motion.”

The director nodded impatiently and walked over to face the large windows that separated his office from the others. Ominous and brooding on the far wall was the eagle insignia of S.H.I.E.L.D. With his back turned to the agent, Fury just stood there. The image was impressionable to say the least.

Barton sighed. “Sir, if your goal was to send a message to Red Room or the KGB, or whatever, consider it sent.”

“How do you figure, Barton,” the director asked not turning around.

“We have one of their top operatives in custody. We’ve shown them that not only can they be beaten, but also that we’re unpredictable.”

“He does have a point, sir,” Coulson interjected.   

Fury sighed heavily and came back over to sit at the desk. “Where is she now?”

“We have her in a holding cell,” Coulson offered before adding, “She’s staying pretty quiet, except to ask for him.” He pointed to Agent Barton who in turn looked shocked.

“Did she say why?” he asked.

Coulson shook his head.

“Well, what are we going to do with her?” the director inquired, a tired tone in his voice. “We can’t keep her here, not as prisoner; she’d be out in no time, and we can’t have her going back, not with what she now knows, so…”

The three were silent.

With unwavering but little volume, Coulson said, “Train her.”

“Excuse me,” Fury replied.

“She’s an excellent fighter, and an equally good agent. If we could get her to defect, she’d be one hell of an asset. Wouldn’t you say, Barton?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Fury interrupted, “So let me get this straight. Both of you want to take an operative, an _enemy_ operative, who from a very young age was kidnapped, brainwashed, genetically altered and has, for the past two decades lived and breathed the organization that took her, and you two want to make her switch sides and work for us, an organization that is way up on the list of enemies she has been programmed to have. Am I right?”

“In a nut shell, Sir,” Coulson confirmed.

“Barton?”

He let out a long breath, his eyes somewhat blank. “She would make an excellent asset, Sir.”

The director stood up. “Are you both crazy?”    

“Sir,” Barton started, “she’s a damn good spy. And from what I’ve seen she realizes the simplicity of being given governmental orders. There may be some rebellion, but I don’t think switching the government will be that big of a deal. I mean, she was brainwashed once. What’s to say we couldn’t… convince her again?”

Fury still wasn’t persuaded. But as a small chime from the computer on the desk sounded, indicating the top of the first hour of morning, he realized that nothing more could, nor should, be decided yet that night. “It’s late. We’ve all had an…eventful day. Barton, go down to the holding cell and check what she wanted to see you for. We’ll meet back here tomorrow and talk more.”

The three left and parted ways.

Agent Barton wasn’t sure what to expect the operative to say to him. But standing there waiting for her reply to his question of why she wanted to see him, he never knew how many possible answers to that question there could be. And the answer that came from her lips was not what he was expecting.  

“Why arrows?”

He shrugged. “They’re quiet.”

She stared at him for a while before saying, “Left ear. Is deaf, _da_? How did that happen?”

“Is this really what you called me down for? And you can drop the accent; I know you can speak English better that I can.”

She tilted her head and pursed her lips some. “I’m lonely. What you do if tables turned?” she asked still with her native pronunciation.

He folded his arms over his chest. “If I was in the cell? I’d be figurin’ a way out.”

“What makes you think I don’t already have one?”

“I think you have several. I’m actually curious to see which exit I’ll meet you at.”

“And what if I have one you not thought of?”

The Hawk just smiled. “Agent Romanov, if you have a way out of here that I don’t know about, then I deserve the arrow I should have shot into you.”

“So you regret your decision to not shoot me?”

“I regret that it’s put me further behind schedule to catch the son of a bitch that destroyed my team.”

“So why not leave? You have ways out of here, _da_?”

He sighed. “’Cause unfortunately I’m responsible for you. At least until they come up with a clear-cut decision on what to do with you.”

The Black Widow shook her head in bewilderment. “You make no sense, Agent Barton. You are killer with unnatural tendency of compassion. You have heart.” She looked at the fair-haired, steely eyed man before her with intense interest. “Why?”

The Hawk smiled again. “Because a blue and purple gypsy didn’t like the idea of me losing all my humanity.” His eyes dropped to the floor. “It’s gone, though, despite her efforts.”

“Yet I am still alive.”

“Yeah, but for how long is out of my hands.”

“What happened to being responsible for me?”

“Well, I may have to buck up and be responsible for killing you.” He added after a beat, “Again.”

She smiled slightly, her eyes burning with intrigue. “And this time I have no mercy from the American Hawk, _da_?”

“Not this time.”

“Then why before?”

Hawkeye grinned once again but turned around to leave. “I guess we’ll never know.”  

 

Clint Barton woke up with the vague sense of having had a nightmare. He couldn’t remember any of it, but that didn’t matter. The screaming, blaring alarm bell was nightmarish enough. He threw the covers off, stumbled into a pair of sweatpants and boots, grabbed his handgun, quiver and bow, and bolted out the door.

Agents were scrambling around in the hall. Barton fought through them to find Hill trying to direct some of the traffic. He had a suspicion of what was going on.

“Is it her?” he asked Hill.

She nodded. “Escaped a few minutes ago. Everyone’s been put on alert. All the exits have been shut down and we have eyes on every vent and tunnel.”

“No offense, Agent, but no you don’t.” He ran down the hall, fighting the horde of scattering agents. He knew he’d have to get away from the crowd if he were to have any chance of getting where he suspected Agent Romanov would go in time. He turned left and jumped up onto a railing before swinging out onto the bottom of a stationary ladder that led up to the catwalk.

Above all the rush and panic, he darted back, positioning himself just over an exhaust port with vents that included one near the holding cell in which Natasha had been detained. Sure enough, he saw her sneak out, hiding expertly between crates and pipes. A walkie talkie sounded and he knew a guard was nearby.

Shit.

Sure enough, as the guard crept past, Agent Romanov attacked, knocking him out and stealing his gun. Barton slid down one of the safety lines and kicked the gun out of her hand. She stumbled but got up almost immediately. She threw a punch that he blocked, but he missed her knee that jammed him in the side. He twisted her captured hand backwards, causing her arm to bend. He brought her arm back around her head and shoved upwards.

But she was good. Choking back the pain, she swung around and clipped his eye socket with her other elbow. He dropped her arm and she went scrambling for the gun. She griped it, turned around, and aimed it at the American Hawk’s head. But as she focused, she saw that he had an arrow nocked and aimed at her.

She smirked. “How’d you know I’d be here?”

“Lucky guess. That and this port happens to have a vent about fifty feet from your holding cell.”

She shook her head and smiled. “You are good.” She raised the gun up a little, straightening her arm, bettering her aim. “So go on and shoot. We will see who drops first.”

He added a little draw weight to the bow. “That’d be simple, wouldn’t it? And it’s not the worst idea, both of us dying, ending this thing. But you see-”

The static from the guard’s radio sounded, followed by his thin voice and a beep when he pushed the button, “Barton’s got her.”

“Keep her on lock down,” Hill’s voice responded from the other end. “We’ll be there.”

And they were, in seconds. A swarm of other agents surrounded them. One cuffed Black Widow and began to lead her back to the holding cell. Barton stood still a moment and then followed. But she didn’t try to escape. She allowed them to take her. And when the bulletproof glass door was sealed tightly, she turned around and stared at the agent keeping an eye on her.

“That’s twice now,” she commented.

He just glared at her.

“What happened to not showing mercy?”

He unfolded his arms from his chest, pulled his gun from its holster on his thigh, checked the clip, and shoved it back into place. Three guards took their stations around the cell, weapons loaded. Hawkeye turned around to leave, calling back his response to her question, “Don’t expect it again.”

 

“I have a simple solution to all this,” Coulson began as the three met again.

“Let’s hear it,” Fury said, leaning back in his chair. He seemed to almost have humor in his tone like he was borderline amused.

“We have an operative that can’t go back to her operations, and we have an agent who, although on a technicality didn’t violate orders, still should have a leave of absence from the field.”

The Hawk wanted to argue but knew better than to even try. He had been in the wrong for not killing Romanov, and he was beginning to regret that decision more and more. Last night had sent him over the edge. He was more than ready to loose that arrow, to send it through her heart and stop all this bullshit. But the guard had called it in and no one gave the kill order. So he had to stand there and do nothing until they showed up. Orders had gotten in the way again.

“Solution,” Coulson continued, “Barton trains her.”

“What?”

“You handled things very well last night. You know how she thinks because she thinks the same way you do. And I can’t think of anyone better to convince her to defect.”

Fury asked, “Sound okay, Barton?”

The Hawk leaned back against the desk. “Let me get this straight, because I avoided a killing spree by bringing her here, I’m in charge of babysitting her?”

“Sounds about right. And Barton,” Fury added, “since you seem to be having trouble with it lately, we’re going to practice. This is an order. Do it.”

He sighed. “Yes, Sir.”            

 

Mentally, underneath her programming, she was about as stable as Jell-O being carried by a Parkinson’s patient. Countless psych evals were in order to “deprogram” the Black Widow and slowly exhume the person who would come to be Natasha Romanov over the course of a couple months.

Emotionally there was a lot missing. On one hand, the Council and even to a degree, Fury, found this to be an okay thing. But the level of her emotional lacking was bad for morale, and if she was ever going to be a part of an organization which housed other people, she’d have to learn some basics. Fury added that requirement to Barton’s To-Do list with a small grin. If there was anyone who could teach the Widow about emotion, it was the hotheaded archer.

Physically there was little room for improvement. The Black Widow’s training and altered genetics shone through in that area as well as in her intelligence and field work experience. So that aspect of “training” her was practically moot. But Barton knew he had to do something with her. If he just left her in her cell she’d undoubtedly escape and he’d be violating orders – a point that was really pissing him off. So the “training” sessions the two attended had turned more into an exercise of orders. On both accounts. And the ending result never wavered. Barton would try to order Romanov to do something, she’d refuse, the two would argue, the session would end. Flawless. And after three weeks of this shit, Hawkeye and Black Widow had had enough.

“I have no reason to follow your orders,” Natasha stated.

“You don’t need a reason. You just do it!” Clint retorted. It was getting late. The pair had been at it for hours with no progress as usual. “Look, just do what I goddamn tell you and I swear I won’t poison your food or stab you in your sleep.”

She smirked. “If you really wanted to kill me, you’d have done so by now.”

“God, what is wrong with you?” he yelled. “Okay, for weeks now, I’ve come in here, asked one simple thing, climb up those damn ropes and bring me the stupid flag. But instead it turns into standoff every single day! Just do what I tell you so I can get back to trying to take down the people who murdered my team.”

“There are no leads by now.”

“Yeah, no thanks to you.”

“Maybe you should have killed me when you had the chance.”

“Well at least we can agree on something.” He locked his eyes with hers for a moment before turning away, sighing.

Widow crossed her arms. “How privileged your childhood must have been if something so simple pisses you off this much. Must have grown up getting everything you ever wanted, snuggling up with Mommy if you had a bad dream, Daddy buy you anything you want. You have no idea what it’s like to be raised by an institution.”

The Hawk turned, his eyes intense. He rubbed at his jaw a moment before fixing Romanov in his steely gaze. “Do you know what foster care is?”

She glared back.

He went on, his voice full force. “It’s where they toss unwanted children and leave them to rot. Sure, they pay families to take them in, and some actually care, actually love that child, but more often than not that money gets spent on drugs and alcohol. And if you’re not starving to death you’re being beaten and sometimes both. So six months later, they pull you out and shove you in with a new family with new rules, new boundaries. And after doing that a bunch of times you give up on making friends or doing well at school because you know in a few weeks it won’t matter. You belong to the state and are at their mercy.

“And the whole time you have a brother with you who is just as starving and has even more bruises and keeps getting in trouble and is sent off for a stint in Juvie, leaving you completely alone to fend for yourself. And when he gets back, he blames you for it all. And suddenly that glimmer of hope in your eyes that you’ve clawed tooth and nail to hold onto falls away. So you find a way to save your asses only to have it come back around and bite ya. Then it turns out that none of it mattered because he’s dead anyway.” Only then did Clint falter a bit. But he squared his shoulders and continued. “So don’t tell me I don’t know what it’s like to be raised by an institution. You at least got fed every day.”

He spun around and made his way for the door. The agents serving as guards stood ready to take Romanov back to her cell. But she called out to him, “I didn’t, you know.”

Hawkeye stopped.

“What was his name? Your brother,” she clarified to his tensed up back.

He glanced over his shoulder saying, “We’re done for today.”

 

The next day was lined up just like all of its predecessors. Except this time, The Black Widow obeyed her given order.

“Okay, stop,” the Hawk told her, rubbing at his eyes.

“Is that not what you want me to do?”

“Yeah, but you’ve never followed my order before. It makes me a bit nervous that you are. So, what’s going on?”

Romanov smiled. “Yesterday I saw him.”

“Who?” Clint knew she had had no visitors. What the hell was she talking about?

“Man.”

“Who?” he repeated, a little more curiosity in his voice. He folded his arms over his chest.  

“When we were at warehouse and you lowered your bow, I saw Man. He didn’t show up again until yesterday. All other times I saw Hawk. Hawk is controlled by S.H.I.E.L.D. and has wings clipped. The man is unpredictable, passionate-”

“Vulnerable,” he finished for her.        

She shrugged. “Perhaps. But you see, Hawkeye, I like Man more than Hawk. If you want anything from me, Man has to ask.”

Barton scoffed. “And how will you know who’s talking?”

“That’s Hawk.” She paused a moment, a faint smile on her lips. “What was your brother’s name?”

He was prepared to go silent, to not say anything. But there was a look in her eyes that made him reconsider. He drew in a long breath before saying. “Barney. But I called him Barn.”

She nodded slowly. “That is Man.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t be ‘Man.’”

“Not always, no. Not with what you do. But the humanity that Gypsy never wanted you to lose will be gone if Hawk continues to starve Man.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He started to play with sleeve of his jacket, pretending to be uninterested. In truth, though, he was completely tuned in to what she was saying.

“It is for me. Man is keeping me alive, yes?”

“All the more reason to kill him off,” he smirked.

Her eyes narrowed. “Is that what Barn would want?”

Hawkeye grinned. “I knew it. I knew what you were doing the whole time. Prying personal information from me to use as a way into my head. Well, it’s not going to work. I know how you think, Natasha.”

She shook her head. “You are wrong.”

“Am I?”

“You don’t know first thing about how I think.”

He glared at her, his eyes narrowed. “I reach for my Glock, you counter with a round kick to my side and pad it with a right hook. Then you take a shot at the nerve cluster above my humerus causing my grip on the gun to let go. You take it, shoot me and start running towards the air vent less than twenty feet from here. You shoot any agent you come across as you take the airshaft to the next floor. There you sneak into the service elevator that will take you to the hanger, you commandeer a jet, and you fly out of here. And if anything hinders your path, there’re at least a dozen other ways out. I know you know them. And I know that because I know them.”

“You forgot something,” she stated, a slight tease in her tone.

The Hawk thought about it for a moment before it hit him. “There’s a pass code and a retina scan required to enter the hanger.” He tilted his head to the side, thinking for a second. “You force an agent to open the door and then shoot him.”

“That’s Hawk talking.” She frowned. “Tell me, what would Man do?”

He thought about briefly. “Same thing, but just knock him out.”

Widow smiled. “I think like Man. If you want to best me, keep him alive.”

Clint shook his head but stayed silent. Natasha started walking towards the agents, her wrists presented for the cuffs. “We are done today, yes?” she called back.

He nodded once and they took her, leaving him alone with a massive headache. The door opened once more and Coulson, who had been monitoring the sessions off and on, approached.

“I think you met your match,” he stated calmly.

The Hawk remained silent.      

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I recognize that foster care is depicted in a bad light in this chapter. I want to say that I know a few foster families and they are wonderful people. But there are bad situations as well, and as portrayed in the comics, Clint didn't have it easy growing up. 
> 
> Okay, so our favorite couple of assassins hasn't exactly gotten off to a great start. But that's soon to change. And as a gift from me to you, you all get a bonus chapter today called Interlude. 
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who has read, commented, Kudos-ed, and bookmarked. You truly are what keeps me going!! :)


	17. Interlude

A match. A pair. It took some getting used to, but the two became partners. Their first mission together had been a success.

Kind of.

The job was supposed to be routine, a simple bag and tag. But something had gone wrong along the way and their intel had been shit. They were ambushed when they tried to secure their target. Clint got shot.

He wouldn’t remember much after the bullet went through his leg, shredding the muscle there to a bloody mess of mincemeat.

   He blacked out from blood loss after only a few minutes with only one thought on his mind. _Finish this, Natasha._

He knew he was going to die; it seemed so inevitable that when his eyes opened and he saw a dingy hotel room setting around him, he didn’t quite believe it at first.

The pain hit with incredible force and he hissed loudly through his teeth, launching upwards to grip at his leg. He found it bandaged but still bleeding. He felt dizzy.

And then out of nowhere she was there, laying a sturdy hand on his chest to get him to lie back down, to rest. He realized she was sticking a needle in his arm and panicked for a moment that she was putting him down. But the image of the bandage surfaced again in his foggy mind and it occurred to him that she wouldn’t have put him together to take him out.

It astounded him for an instant that she hadn’t bolted. They were on the Ukrainian border; she could be back safe in Russia in mere hours. He wouldn’t have noticed since he was all but dead. She could have gone back. But she didn’t. She’d saved his sorry ass instead. She’d stayed to put him back together.

Later he’d ask her why she didn’t run away. She’d just shrug and respond with, “Why didn’t you kill me?”

Neither would answer save for a smirk or small, careful smile.  

Natasha would never say but that mission had sealed the deal for her. She could never leave. Not, at least, while she still owed this man her life. She saw it as her duty to save Clint no matter what because he’d given her the second chance she’d never deserved. She was not S.H.I.E.L.D.’s agent. She was Clint’s. And as long as his heart was still beating, she would protect it.

 

But the two soon found out that guarding another’s heart can lead to trouble. They started to notice the space between them closing. They were with each other constantly and it was starting to have an effect. They were forced to be in tune with each other’s bodies because training required knowledge of the opponent’s strengths and weaknesses. But that knowledge was only found through observation. And the two cautiously started to notice that neither one minded the view.

Their relationship slowly moved towards a precarious edge, and neither one wanted to slip first.

But eventually one did.     

 

Clint turned off the hot water and let the drops rolls off of his body for a moment. His shoulder was killing him. He stepped out, dried off, and wrapped the towel around his waist. He opened the medicine cabinet and took a couple aspirin to help the sharp pain in his tense shoulder.

 He knew the instant he stepped out into his room that he was not alone. Instinctively he reached into the closet and pulled out a knife he kept hidden there. He turned around quickly, armed.

“Relax,” she said, her hands up in surrender, her eyes on the knife. “It’s just me.”

“I thought you knew better than to sneak up on me, Nat.” He put the knife away and eyed her a bit. “What are you doing here anyways?”

She shrugged and sat down on his bed. The sight of Clint in a towel was not lost on her. She shoved away the inappropriate impulse that had bubbled up inside her. “I noticed your shoulder was giving you hell today in practice. Thought I’d help relax it,” she held up a small bottle of salve. He’d seen her use it on her own muscles when they were acting up. She patted the bed next to her for him to sit down. He obliged, clenching the towel a little tighter around his waist.

Gently she touched his shoulder and frowned at the texture of his ruined tissues and metallic plate being more evident than bone.

“It’s amazing it doesn’t bother you more, she commented, dipping her fingers into the salve jar. She worked the spiced mixture into his shoulder, tracing her fingers down his arm to help release tension. She had him turn so she could get at the tight spot on his back, just above his shoulder blade.

The stuff was potent and had a rich scent that made Clint’s head heavy and his eyes droop. He could feel the tight tension leaving his tendons and with the release came the awareness of Nat’s hands on his body.

It had gotten worse lately. He took notice of the simplest things she did: the way she gingerly sipped her coffee, the lay of her damp hair over her shoulders after a shower and the water seeping into her shirt; the way she favored her left hip after long practices. He kept having to chase away a desire he never though he’d have.

Her hand had wandered, slowly massaging his collarbone and up into his neck. It felt so good and the scent had knocked him out enough he wasn’t entirely sure he did it. His lips ducked down to her hand’s side and he placed a gentle kiss there. Her hand froze and he knew he’d messed up.      

He had only one way to try and recover from this. "Thank you," he whispered. She removed her hand, a stale air of discomfort still hanging. 

"You're welcome," she answered in a mumble. He heard her put the lid back on the bottle, closing the salve jar and their conversation. She got up and made her way for the door not once looking back at the archer. 

As soon as she was out, Clint stretched out on his bed and groaned. How could he have been so stupid? He knew Natasha would have responded in such a closed-off manor. But the scent - the rich scent that still floated in the air - had gotten his head to swim and bob, had gotten his mind to cloud.

He could still feel her delicate fingers on his skin. The thought gave rise to an emotion he'd long kept buried. And while he understood that the nature of the ideas flooding his mind at the thought of her were all but illegal in the realm of S.H.I.E.L.D., he couldn't care less that they were present anyway. He let himself get carried away on the current of intimate images his mind provided him. Folding his arms behind his head, tucked neatly under his pillow, his well-formed biceps touching his ears, he thought of Natasha in a way that was unprofessional and all together satisfying. 

 

She tried to wash the salve off her hands and with it the feeling of his skin. She had gotten lost in the beauty of his flesh, the tightly-bound weave of his calloused skin. She adored the feeling of his muscles moving in harmony with his bones as if the very movement of his body could be sensed at a molecular level under her hands. She'd gone in with the intention of helping her partner and had left with the displeasing sensation of having fallen into a trap.

He'd been all but naked when she'd entered and that notion had sent her mind flying in a direction she could not afford to take. She wasn't going to deny that Barton was good-looking; it was one of the qualities that made him a good spy. People trusted his slate blue eyes, loved his alluring grin. But would she be lying to herself if she said she didn't find him attractive? There was a distinct difference and she couldn't bring herself to quantify just how much of a line there was separating those differences. 

She turned off the water and sat down on the edge of the tub. She collapsed her face into her hands. _What are you doing, Natalia_? she asked herself. But she knew full well. She was getting too close. And based on her history, too close meant someone was going to get hurt.  


	18. прелюдия: 2

My father knew I liked to be read to when I was sick. He didn’t indulge any of my lesser illnesses, but when I was truly down, he’d break out the thick, cracked volume of children’s stories and read them to me until I fell asleep.

He liked that I had a passion for reading, for learning. It suggested I’d be a quick learner. Plus it kept me out of his hair when he was around and busy when he was not.

“Happy Birthday, Natalia,” he grinned handing me the small package wrapped in rich red paper. My small hands shook with childish excitement as I ripped the paper away and revealed what I’d hoped the gift to be. It was. We’d been in a local bookshop when I’d zeroed on to it. He had told me that I had enough books for now and that I didn’t need the tiny volume of Russian poetry. And while I’d suspected that he had an ulterior motive, his response had been oddly final.

But then the wrapped gift had appeared and the book was in my hands. I read it cover-to-cover wishing one day I’d see the beauty it described.

I saw nothing but blood instead.

 

When I first met Clint, I was under the impression that the man had never even lifted a book in his life. But a lengthy discussion over coffee in Prague after yet another successful mission proved otherwise. He knew his classics, not quite at the level of detail that I did, but enough to be mildly impressive.

“Where did you read them?” I asked after awhile, curious how he had access during his touch-and-go childhood.

“While Jacques was training me in the circus, Monique, the gypsy that took Barn and me in, made sure us hooligans stayed somewhat educated.” He played with his empty cup. “Kinda comes in handy sometimes.”

He got quiet and I knew that meant he’d gotten stuck in a memory. I wished I could do that, but none of mine are solid enough to slip back to.

I gently asked, “Do you ever miss it?” hoping he’d fill me in. I liked it when Clint talked about his circus past. It was one of the only highlights in his life - despite its apparent shadows – and I loved the stories that accompanied it. Clint told them in a way that made me feel like I’d been there next to him the whole time, that they were my memories too. I liked that. I liked sharing his solid memories and claiming portions of them as my own.  

He shrugged. “Sometimes.” A grin spread out on his face. “I miss the sugar. Cotton candy, ice cream, taffy. I miss the slight stench of sulfur and smoke from pyrotechnics.”

I minutely flinched at the mention of fire, but he was lost in memory and didn’t notice.

The grin became wider, slyer. “I miss watching the female gymnasts warming up and stretching out in all that tight clothing.”

I frowned and kicked him lightly under the table. 

“Hey!” But we were both kind of smirking.

After a moment, he grew somber and didn’t look at me. In a mumble he added, “I miss Trick.”

“Who?”

“Trick Shot.” And then, “He was a friend.”

The “was” got to me in a strange way. I knew then that it was something big and private. But I was dying to know the rest of this memory so I could share in its reality. That alone is the only reason I dared to venture, “What happened?”

Clint didn’t say anything for a while and I prepared myself for whatever tragic ending this friendship had. All I got instead was Clint standing up to leave, tossing down some bills to pay for the coffee, and, “Maybe some day I’ll tell you.”

I followed him out thinking maybe I didn’t want that memory after all.


	19. Chapter 9: Tricked

Hawkeye couldn’t sleep. Not even the few hours he managed every night. There was something off in the air, a certain electricity that was leaving the atmosphere with the wrong charge. He threw off the covers, got up, and went out into the small kitchen of the apartment. His trained eyes saw the movement in the shadows. He reached under the counter for the gun hidden there but found only an empty holster. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

He grabbed a kitchen knife, all the while peering into the darkness and waiting for the next motion. It came at him in a trained lunge. He swiped the blade blindly at the attacker. No contact was made, but the aggressor had revealed himself. Hawkeye was ready.

He spun around, keeping one leg up in a round kick that collided neatly with the target. He followed it up with a punch to the ribs. The man let out a grunt of pain, but was clearly well versed in combat. Before Barton could retract the fist, the man grabbed it in his hand, twisted his arm, and locked Clint’s forearm behind his head. Barton managed a stomp on the attacker’s foot that made him waver enough to let Hawkeye go. The two were facing each other for a moment and in that glimpse Barton knew he had to be dreaming.

With the small hole made by Clint’s shock, the man came down on Barton’s head with a solid fist and followed it up with a rough punch to the jaw. Barton stepped back with the movement, stars bordering his vision.

Out of the darkness she slithered in to the room with aggressive grace and prowess. She kicked his gut, causing the man to double over in pain. She uppercut his chin and followed through with a left hook and another knee to his side. She grabbed his throat in one hand and shoved him violently against the wall, ripping the hood from his head. With her other hand she pressed a gun up to the intruder’s temple.

“Nat, stop,” Barton warned from behind her.

“You know him?” Romanov questioned, not letting her grip lessen in the slightest.

Barton looked at the man, an inquiry in his eyes. The only response was a laugh from the attacker’s throat. It was horse and strained under Natasha’s grip, but it was still the same laugh. “You always did have a thing for tough chicks.” Another strangled snicker. “Been dating long?”

“We’re partners,” Nat snapped back.

“Hey, whatever you want to call it.” He tried to smile but she pressed the gun to his head tighter. “You gonna tell her to let me go, Clint?”

Hawkeye’s voice was ice cold. “I don’t know, Trick. Last time I saw you, you were threatening to put an arrow through my heart if you ever saw me again.”

“I can explain.”

“Then do so.”

“Only once Xenia here lets me go.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed at the comment. “Don’t be stupid, Clint. Don’t let him-”

“Let him go, Nat.”

She glared at her partner, her green eyes fierce. But the blue-grey of his was calm, serious. She knew there was nothing she could say to convince him otherwise. Those eyes were focused, intense, vigilant. If this intruder so much as coughed the wrong way, both of them would be on him in the blink of an eye. But still, this man was toying with Clint’s mind. She knew the kind of effect brain play could have on an individual; she knew that very well.  

Barton’s eyes were intent and so she knew there would be no convincing him. But she wasn’t comfortable with the situation. So she’d be vigilant of the two of them. While Clint watched the intruder, she’d watch Clint.

Slowly Natasha released Trick Shot, brining the gun down, un-cocking it, but keeping it ready in her hand.

Trick rubbed at his throat. “Damn, girl, you’ve got one hell of a grip.”

“How did you find me?” Barton asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’ve still got a few friends here and there,” he responded, continuing to rub at his neck. “Besides, Clint, I never really lost track of you. I promised to kill you, remember? And if I ever had to make good on that, I would need to know where you were located.” He paused a second. “Though I give you credit, you’ve been a handful.”

“What do you want, Trick?” Barton’s tone was sharp.

Trick Shot wrestled with his answer, tossing the words around in his mouth until they tasted right. “Simply put, I want forgiveness.”

Natasha noticed the absolute strain in Clint’s face. There was tension in every one of his muscles.

“Get out,” was all he said.

“Clint, wait,” Trick pleaded. But the archer had turned and was walking away. “Look, man, I know I don’t deserve anything from you. Not after… not after what happened. To Barn, I mean.”

Clint paused in the doorway, one arm resting on the frame. There was visible strain in his bare back. Nat could only imagine how much he was holding back, especially at the mention of his brother.

“But I need to talk to you,” Trick went on, his voice dropping with every word.

“Couldn’t wait ‘til morning?” the marksman retorted, a slight air of snark coming through. Nat could tell it was taking all he had to keep from attacking the intruder. Her vigilant gaze sharpened at the impending pain this conversation was towing.

“Not when you only have two weeks to live,” Trick answered somberly.

Hawkeye turned to face the man who had betrayed him, who had left him with his brother’s broken body and no means of escape. But his eyes had softened in the half -light of the city’s late night pollution. “It’s back?”

Trick rubbed tiredly at his neck. “Yeah, and it’s come with a vengeance.” He tried to laugh it off, but it dissolved into a tortured cough. He rinsed off his now bloody hand in the sink. “It’s funny,” he started, taking a seat at the kitchen table, “you go your whole life dodging bullets, and in the end, your body kills itself.” Again he tried to smile, but his disease prevented it from being genuine.

Clint cautiously sat across from him.

Trick folded his hands on the table.  They were scarred with years of use and torture, of tricks and trouble.

“Spill, Trick,” Barton commanded, still a little on edge but much more relaxed.

Trick rubbed at the back of his neck; the action apparently painful in his squinted eyes. Nat and Clint both took notice of the way his blue-tinted flesh hung on his visible bones. His clothes bagged around his deteriorating body. His sunken eyes came to a glint of light when he said, “I guess I’ll have to start at the beginning.” He wet his thin lips. “Do you know what it was we were sent to steal?”

“I’m gonna guess it wasn’t drug money,” Barton answered. His slate blue eyes were fixed on Trick Shot. At last he was going to get answers for that night. The price would be poking at scars, but it was one he could handle. At least, he was hoping he could.

Trick shook his head. “The people who hired me promised me a cure. I had just found out that I had cancer.” He bowed his head, his spine at the base of his neck poking out. “I had so much left to do, Clint. You gotta believe me. I didn’t want to die. Not then. I had so much…”

Clint just stared at him.

“Anyway, they told me that if I got them the contents in the safe, they would fund my treatment. They would save me. But I knew the current treatments back then didn’t have today’s survival rate so I told them that it was a no go. But then they offered me a chance to be _cured._ They said that the contents of the safe would guarantee me better health than anything I’d ever known. So I had to do it, you see. I had to take the job.” He paused a second. “And I needed you to help me.”

“So you recruited me.”

“You were my best shot at this. We knew how we operated together. We could do this job in a way that no one else could: quick, clean.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t expect it to go so south.”

Natasha was curious now and couldn’t help but ask. “What happened?”

Clint answered, “Trick had missed a bit of recon. The guard doubled when the cartel leader came home. Which just happened to be the night we decided to rob him.”

“It was also the night the police had the same idea,” Trick added. “The government had an undercover fed working the drug ring case.”

“Let me guess; Barn?”

Trick nodded only once and Clint stayed perfectly still. After a second Barton said, “Why are you hashing this all out again, Trick?” The tension in his voice did not escape Nat’s notice.

“Because I’ve come to fix a problem I started. Like I said, it wasn’t money we were going to steal, it was documents.” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out some wrinkled papers. “These.”

“What are they?” Tasha asked, looking at them carefully. They looked government official and were marked TOP SECRET.

“They’re copies of what I gave the people who hired me.” He cast a glance at Clint. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t about to let them be the only ones with this intel. Anyway, best I can tell there’s this cube thing that essentially is a self-producing energy source. Now can you imagine what you could do with that? What kind of tech advances you could power?”

“What kind of weapons you could create?” Barton added grimly.

Trick rubbed his neck again. “Yeah, well, I can tell you one thing, it didn’t work for medical advancement.” The blue of his veins came through his white skin so easily it was like someone had tattooed them on.

“Did the people who hired you say anything about what they were going to use this cube for?”

“No, but I’ve been digging. Turns out this cube thing was in U.S. custody for years – ever since WWII. Howard Stark found it in the ocean and it’s been under lock and key ever since he died. But here’s the catch, the moment you’ve been waiting for, it’s-”

“No longer there,” Natasha interrupted.

“Penny for the pretty lady,” Trick commented. “The government lost it sometimes during the mid-seventies.”

“What do you mean, ‘lost?’”

“Um, no longer have it in custody.”

“Who stole it?” Romanov questioned.

“You did, Cossack. The Russkies. Cold War thing.” Nat crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him, but Trick went on. “But you don’t have it now either. I won’t get into the details of it all; believe me, it’s quite the story. This thing has bounced around the globe like a freakin’ crooked politician set on covering his trail. We’re talking Cuba, France, Brazil, Egypt, hell even Antarctica.”

“Who has it now, Trick?” Barton asked, steering him back on track.

Trick smiled wide. “Always cut to the chase, huh, Barton?” He cleared his throat and swallowed the mucus and blood mixture with a disgusted but necessary look on his face. “They do,” he claimed, pointing to a scribbled word in the margin of one of the papers he’d pulled out earlier. “The cube’s in Budapest. Being held and examined there by the people that hired me.”

Barton looked at the scribbled word on the paper and felt his mind explode. Almost breathless he mumbled, “Monarch.” He shot a glare at Trick. “The people who hired you? How did they contact you?”

“Encrypted emails.”

“So you never heard a voice?”

“Never.”

“And you’re sure there was more than one person?”

“Well, no. I mean all I got was the emails. And that was the only name. Monarch.”

“Damn it,” Clint exclaimed.

“Why? Does it mean something?”

“Yeah. Monarch took out my entire team at S.T.R.I.K.E.” He sighed, ran his hands through his hair. “Son of a bitch!”

Natasha finally spoke up. She’d been silent, watching the scene unfold before her, but now it was no longer in her best interest to keep quiet. As soon as she had heard the name, she knew. And so she corrected, “Actually, just bitch.”

The other two turned to her, wide-eyed, curious.

“Monarch is – well, was – a Red Room agent.”

Barton stared at his partner. She felt like she’d betrayed him. But this was the first time he’d ever mentioned the name; she would have told him far sooner if she’d known.

“What happened to her?” Trick asked, leaning back his frail body so that it pushed uncomfortably against the chair. He stopped and resumed his slump.

Nat shrugged. “She went crazy. Started screwing up assignments, acting funny. They claimed it was a reaction to the medication they gave us early on in the program. And then she just vanished. No one knows where she went.”

Clint hadn’t taken his eyes off of her and she could feel their vigilant presence like a laser sight on the back of her head. In a quiet voice he asked, “Did you work with her, Tasha?”

She knew her answer would define their relationship from that moment on. And she was relieved that she could honestly say, “No.” The slightest shift in his features told her that he believed her.               

Clint’s mind went into rapid motion. “So why does Monarch have the cube? What does she want with it?”

Trick smiled in his devil-may-care fashion. “Why don’t you ask your director, Hawk-man? Huh? Why do you think I brought it to you?” He leaned forward. “Look, I’ve been following this thing for years. My resources are running out, not to mention my time. I made a mistake, Clint. I made a bad call and I’ve paid for it everyday. Now it’s up to you. This is my apology: a chance for you to take back what we helped steal and put it into hands, if not more trustworthy, than at least more stable. Get the cube back. Because I can guarantee you that Monarch has nothing good planned for it.”

Trick looked exhausted. His bald head and visible veins, his sunken eyes and weak frame, they all were slowly counting down to the second when they would fail and shut down all together. 

Clint took papers from the table and gave them a once over. He set them down with a motion of acceptance, saying, “Okay, Trick.” He stood up and turned to go back to his room. Calling over his shoulder, he added, “Now get out.”

With defeat in his eyes, the former performer stood up to leave. But the Russian Redhead would have none of his plan for an easy escape. She knew she had a chance, and she fully intended to take it.

She threw out her hand and snatched Trick’s wrist. “What happened that night?” she asked sharply. “The truth, all of it.”

Trick tried to jerk away but just didn’t have the strength. He grinned crookedly and said, “Take it Clint never told you.” He sighed heavily, sitting back down. “What I told you here tonight is the truth. But if you want the full story…Clint killed his brother. I’d say it was an accident, but, technically, it wasn’t. He meant to shoot the guard. The guard just happened to be an undercover fed, just happened to be Barn.”

“How did it happen?”

“We were almost into the safe. The combination was a bitch, mind you. Anyway, Clint was watching my six. We had taken out the number of guards that would have been there normally. But like Clint said, it doubled when the drug lord came home. He was plucking ‘em off one by one as they tried to come in the room. One slipped past and, man, this guy was good. He and Clint struggled for a little bit, but Clint managed to get an arrow out and shoved it into the guy’s chest. The KQ49 on the tip would kill the guy in seconds, so-”

“KQ49?”

“Kill Quick 49. It’s a toxin designed to target red blood cells. It takes forty-nine seconds to reach the heart and render it a useless sack. I know it sounds awful, but it’s actually more humane. A quick death versus slowly bleeding out. And that’s just what happened.

“We were in guard gear, and, since we were hacking into the safe, we both had our face masks off. The fed had lost his mask in the struggle and,” he paused as if having to really reach back and recall that night. “God, it all happened so fast. All at once, I got the safe open, the guy lost his mask, and Clint jabbed the arrow in his chest. I turned to tell Clint that it was open and instead saw him falling with the guy’s body in his arms. His face was tortured and confused and when I looked down I barely recognized Barn. And Clint just knelt there, holding him in disbelief.”

He went silent, his mind obviously back at the house that night, reliving the scene. After a moment he came back to the present. “But that’s not where it ends. More guards were coming; Police sirens were blaring in the distance. I grabbed what was in the safe and started tugging at Clint, yelling at him that we had to go. But it was like he couldn’t even hear me. Maybe he couldn’t; too stunned to move, I guess. It doesn’t matter though. I yelled at him to move his ass, to…leave his brother and haul. But Clint stayed there, unmoving. I managed at one point to pull him away but he shoved back. ‘We’re not leaving without him!’ he screamed at me. I knew the body would only slow us down so I pulled at him again.”

He ran his hands over his bald head and looked as if he might break into tears. Instead he laughed, an otherworldly sound as if it was part of an act from years ago. “And you’d think that’d be where it ended. But it isn’t. No. No, instead I grabbed one of Clint’s arrows and…” he struggled a little, “shoved the poisoned tip into his shoulder, screaming at him that he’d chosen the wrong brother. That if I ever saw him again, I’d kill him.

“And then the crowning jewel, the apex of my sins. I ran. I turned tail like a fucking coward and ran, leaving Clint injured and his brother, my brother, dead in his arms.” He tried again to laugh away the pain, but it sounded even more unnatural this time. “Nine years,” he began, his voice hoarse and strained. “Nine years my body has on and off tried to kill me. Slowly. Cell by cell. Nine years. And I’d have to endure a thousand times that to match the pain in his eyes that night.” He lolled his head over towards Natasha. “There you have it, agent. That’s what happened that night.”

“And you think getting this cube makes up for it?” She kept a stern tone, but a note of disbelief crept up into it.

“No,” he replied curtly. “Not in the slightest. But it’s all I can do.” He rubbed at his aching arms and neck and stood up, this time being allowed to leave by the Russian Redhead. He reached the door and opened it to leave but added, “Agent.”

She faced him.

“One more thing. I watched Clint fall in love once. It was far from graceful and so complete. Head over heels the whole way.” He shifted his hand on the doorknob. “He’s got that same look in his eyes when he looks at you.”

It took all of her years of training to not react to his statement. Inside, though she was screaming. Why the hell did he have to tell her that?

“So if you have any notion of just toying with him, consider this your warning. That broken heart ain’t pretty.”

Part of her wanted to shove him back up into the wall by his throat and threaten him some more with the gun. But a larger part just wanted him to leave. So she replied, “I promise it will never come to that.”

He scoffed. “It already has.” He shook his membranous head. “Take it from someone who’s been dying for years. It’s better to regret doing something than to regret not doing it.” And with that he left.

Natasha sat in one of the kitchen chairs. Her thoughts circled around to the first morning she’d woken up in her and Clint’s shared apartment. The aroma of coffee had brought her from her room to the kitchen and the sight that greeted her would never leave her mind. Clint had been fixing breakfast and was hunched over the stove dressed in grey sweats and a towel over his shoulder. She’d seen him shirtless before, but in this atmosphere he looked so… at home. As if he’d lived here for years instead of just being issued to the downtown, two-bedroom apartment to share with his partner. The two still spent most of their time at S.H.I.E.L.D. but now and then they would get some time off between missions to get completely away from it all; Fury had thought it best that they leave S.H.I.E.L.D. quarters, to recharge and refocus in an atmosphere that was less draining. And it did help.

But then there were moments like that first morning, like now, when she wanted nothing to do with the place.

After a moment she went to fridge, grabbed two beers and headed up to the roof where she knew she’d find him.

“Trick left,” she mentioned going to sit next to him on the ledge. He didn’t reply but did manage a glance her way. _Okay, not too bad,_ she thought. She handed him one of the bottles before opening her own. He held it in his hands for a second then twisted off the cap with only his palm, a circus trick he tended to employ. He downed about a third before he took a breath.

_Okay, maybe not as good as I thought._

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and held the bottle out, studying it. He shook his head. “Dad was an abusive alcoholic; you know that? Used to get drunk and beat on us. I always swore I’d never touch the stuff but Trick told me better retaliation would be to drink and still retain control.” He took another swing then smiled. “God, I got plastered. I was like eighteen. The hangover that followed…” And then his eyes turned sad. “The next time I got drunk was when I got the letter from the army saying Barn had died in combat.” He downed some more and Nat was starting to get concerned. “Go figure it was a fucking lie.” His silver eyes had gone steely. “Three days. Three days I was holed up, hiding from the cops after that stunt Trick and I pulled. I still had Barn’s blood on my hands.” He stared at the bottle and Tasha swore she caught a glint of moisture rimming his eyes. “It was mixed with my own. The KQ…”

“It didn’t kill you,” she realized.

“I’d spent time building up an immunity. Never use a poison you’re not invulnerable to.” He sounded like he was quoting someone else. Most likely he was. “After that third night, I was out of liquor and hope. The pain was too damn much. My shoulder was so screwed up they had to take me to the hospital or I’d risk losing the arm.” Another swig but smaller this time. “I don’t know who the surgeon was, but he’s the only reason I can still hold a bow.”    

“How old were you?”

“Twenty-seven.” He downed the rest of the beer and stared off at the city below. After a moment Nat took his empty bottle and set it beside her before gently grabbing Clint’s hand in her own. It wasn’t a gesture of the troubling want that was building up inside her; it was simply an action of comfort. And as Clint folded his warm fingers around hers she knew that’s how he took it.

He almost scoffed, but the rimming moisture in his eyes took all the hostility away from it. “Barn died for nothing. Trick didn’t even get healed.”

Tasha could tell that pained him terribly. So she made up her mind then. Squeezing his hand tighter she asked, “So when do we get this cube?”

He stared at her in disbelief.

“Think about it, Clint,” she reasoned. “Getting that cube would be shoving a middle finger into Monarch’s face. So let’s take away her toy and give Barn’s death some serious meaning. S.H.I.E.L.D. gets the cube, you get to avenge your team and Barn, and Trick gets to die knowing his stab at atonement wasn’t wasted.”  

Slowly a smile spread across Hawkeye’s face. His fingers tightened around Widow’s and he leaned in the slightest bit. “What would I do without you?” he asked in a whisper.

She had never been so tempted to kiss him. The idea that it could so easily happen frightened her. And in that fear she found herself leaning closer. He whispered her name gently and her eyes seemed to close themselves. Then she felt it: a small, soft peck on her cheek.

“Thank you,” he breathed before swinging over to the rooftop and heading back inside.

She stayed there shocked at the suddenness and the danger of that previous moment. She was unraveling and she could see the holes he was causing. But she couldn’t shake the fact that she adored the thrilling pain. She’d been warned to not toy with him. She had no intention of doing so. But to not break his heart…

She finished her beer and went back to her room, her head swimming with the kiss still lingering on her cheek.       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I implore you to please just go with this. I promise I have reasons. (You can decide if they're good ones or not later.) 
> 
> Thank you again for all who have read, commented, bookmarked, and Kudos-ed! Enjoy the update and I will see you next week!!


	20. прелюдия: 3

I was surrounded by red. Inundated with it. Drowning in it. My hands were covered in red from the blood and the cold, raw wind of winter in Budapest. My face burned at the cheeks where he had slapped me. My hair was a tangled mess of red curls. Thick red blood, dark in places, stained my clothes. My eyes were red from the tears I didn’t realize were there.

But it was over. My first mission for Red Room was finally over and a success.

I burned the body, replacing the red with yellow-orange, bright blue, and ashy black. I cleaned up in a dingy hotel with red walls and faded red carpet. I shoved down the red-hot rage and composed myself. I felt nothing as I waited in a café with cherry wood tables and red mugs. A man with a red tie handed me my next file.

It was easier the second time around to add red to my ledger and practically mindless the third.

The red I was rolling in accumulated and my ledger gushed.

Red is blood and anger. Red is heat, fear, and fire. Red is passion.

Red is heart.


	21. Chapter 10: Budapest or Bust

Director Fury was in Morocco, finishing up a classified case that required a security clearance most of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were not even aware existed. He was wrapping up a very enlightening interrogation when someone informed him he had a call. Taking up his phone and exiting the small, stone chamber to go upstairs, away from other ears, he answered.

“Hey, Fury, it’s Barton,” the agent started nonchalantly. “You busy?”

“This better be damn important, Barton.” The director’s grip tightened on the phone. “I haven’t had sleep in over fifty-two hours and I’m not it a very chatty mood.”

“I promise this won’t take long.”

“It better not.” He could hear the muted background sounds of S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters get louder and assumed the agent had put him on speakerphone in one of the offices.

“Nat and I want to know about the cube.” A _beep_ sounded and Fury pulled the phone away to see an image of a file; a picture attached to the paperwork showed a blue, glowing box.

Putting the phone back up to his ear he asked, “How did you find out about this?”

“An old friend.”

The director had a suspicion of who that “old friend” was. But he remained silent a little longer, debating.

Barton broke the quiet by offering, “Look, we know the thing was stolen and we know where it is now.” He added after a beat, “Supposedly. So the deal is if you tell us about this thing – you know, just enough intel so we don’t die or blow up or anything tragic like that – then we’ll go get it for you.”

Director Fury considered this and after a moment he asked, “You on a secure line?”

“Do you really have to ask?”

The director sighed, lining up his thoughts. “The cube, the Tesseract, is energy. Pure, raw, unprecedented energy. It’s self-sustaining. It’s renewable. It could change the way the whole world runs if developed in the right way.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Romanov quipped. Her voice was a little more distant sounding over the phone so he figured she was standing further away.

“In the wrong hands, yes,” Fury agreed. “In fact in any hands.”

“Which means…?” Barton prompted.

Fury sighed. The information he had to give them sat in a classified grey area. Simultaneously it was both intel and rumors, history and fiction. Shaking his head he answered, “The cube may not be from around here. Allegedly it was left here by the gods of old and found by the Nazi’s in WWII. Its power was exploited by the leader of Hydra, the Nazi science research division.”

“Hydra?” Natasha questioned.

“You know it?” her partner asked.

It was quiet for a second on both ends of the line before she responded, “You have to remember that Russia and Germany had an alliance at one point. Certain ideas and information may have gotten into Red Room.”

Fury went on, “The leader, Johan Schmitt, was obsessed with the cube and reports show that he took its power and fashioned weapons out of it. In retaliation, the US made it’s own weapon. The super soldier, Captain America. St-”

“Steve Rogers,” Clint interjected before explaining, “he came up briefly at S.T.R.I.K.E. since we were basically doing the same thing. ‘Cept it failed.” 

“A lot of people have tried to duplicate the formula over the years,” Fury continued. “No one has succeeded.” _Not even the most recent one,_ he thought to himself as memories of the flailing, green rage monster flashed through his mind. He kept the conversation moving, “You said you had intel. Is it reliable?”

There was silence from the other end for a while before Clint replied, “Enough.” He went on, “We believe the cube is in Budapest. Sir,” a pause, “Monarch’s involved.”

The director shook his head heavily. He knew Barton would have a hard time swallowing what he was about to say. “Then there is no way I can let you take this case, Barton.”

“Sir-”

“No, Barton. You are far too emotionally connected to this case. Monarch took out your team at S.T.R.I.K.E. and may be connected to your brother’s death and the worsening state of your “old friend’s health.” He figured he’d hint at what he really knew just to keep his agents on their toes.

He could hear Clint take in a deep breath and let it out sharply. “Sir, those reasons you just mentioned, they’re exactly why I need his case.”

“No.”

Natasha interjected, “What about me? I could take it.”

The director debated that. Natasha had been an ally long enough have gone on solo missions before and had headed dozens upon dozens of missions with her partner in tow. But this was delicate. He cursed himself for it and blamed it on his lack of sleep, but he answered, “Fine.”

And like clockwork Natasha played him. “Oh, but you know, director, Monarch has ties to Red Room which may put me in a difficult position seeing as we have a similar past. Therefore I employ code 477-92B and transfer the position and role of leader to my partner, Clint Barton.”

“Well it would be rude for me to not accept such an honor. Thank you, Nat.”

The director ran a tired hand over his face. With only the thinnest edge of humor he replied, “How the hell did I end up with you mother fucking, conniving little punks?”

“We love you too, Fury,” Clint pouted.

Director Fury let out a deep sigh. “Have Coulson whip up a cover for you to enter and exit the country, schedule check-ins, brief you more on the cube and its use in Hydra; you know the drill.”

“Yes, Sir,” they both replied, one beat off from each other like an echo.

He was about to hang up when he remembered the most important part. “Agents. The Tesseract was stored in a case specially designed by Howard Stark. If the people who stole it knew what was good for them, they’d know not to remove the cube from that case. If that’s true, and the cube is still in its case, you are not to open the case, you are not to look at the cube, and above all, you are not to touch the cube. That much raw power can tear a body up. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

The call ended and Fury felt an added weight to his shoulders. “Don’t mess this up,” he told the surrounding dry air. “Please don’t mess this up.”           

 

…

 

Budapest was a jewel of a city. Thrilling and lively, just as Natasha had remembered it. But the city had always held a mix of emotions for her. She had sealed her fate with the blast of a single bullet; she had been saved by the man she was with now. And with Clint’s kiss still persisting on her cheek, she didn’t want to be here. The lights, the sounds, the atmosphere itself seemed too close. She wanted to run away for a while and sort out how she felt about his act of closeness, how to respond to it. 

They were dressed in finer attire, posing as bankers coming for an important transaction and were in a cab, heading downtown.

“Remind me again, who is Anton?” Barton asked, his eyes still taking in the lit up scenery full of nightlife.

“He’s a rat. Full on, scheming, little bastard with a history stoked in larceny and bloodshed. He’s the operator on several scams, owns a handful of clubs and whorehouses. A true lowlife. But because he surrounds himself with like company, he makes for a terrific informant. You just have to add the right amount of pressure, work the right angle. Oh,” she leaned forward to talk to the driver, “ _húzza ide, kérem_.”

“ _Feltétlenül_ ,” he responded, pulling the cab over to a small restaurant. Nat and Clint climbed out, paying the diver before slipping inside the place.

“We eating before we go?” Barton questioned, following his partner to the back of the eatery.

“We’re actually here to change clothes, but feel free to try some _halászlé_ if you’re looking for a cuisine challenge.” She nodded to the cook as they passed through the kitchen.

“You’ve been here before, huh?”

“It’s been a Red Room hotspot in the past, yes.” They found their way into a supply closet. It was close and cramped but had enough room to maneuver in. From her handbag, Natasha pulled out a small black dress and began undressing to change into it. Clint undid his shirt and tie, changing into a T-shirt and pullover. He cast a glance back at Nat before undoing his belt and switching into jeans. But in that glimpse he’d caught her switching out her bra for a strapless one, and the sight of her ivory bare back and partial breasts left him fumbling with the button on his pants.

_Damn it, Barton. Pull yourself together._

“You’ll be on the roof on this building, facing the alleyway. I’ll go in and flush him out. Wait for my signal and then fire a warning shot. Got it?”

“Yeah, but, what’s the signal, exactly?”

“You’ll know it when you see it; trust me. Dammit. Can you get this zipper?”

“Sure.” She had it halfway, but the curve of her spine was still plenty visible. He took in a deep breath to try and push away the thoughts going through his mind. He got the zipper up and in place. She turned around, muttering her thanks and squeezing past him to exit out a secret compartment at the back of the closet.

“Wait a few minutes before you take the fire escape up. See you soon.” She left and he had to shake his head to try and clear away the lingering images of her that were silently torturing him.

Some girls went crazy for a man in a suit. And while she didn’t mind that attire, she preferred Clint in his grey jeans, purple T-shirt, and dark grey hoodie. He looked more relaxed that way, an image that matched his insane patience that came from being a marksman and sniper. It was why she had him on the roof. She liked the action to be up close and personal where she could deal with any immediate threats. Clint would bide his time waiting for the shot to come to him.

She entered the noisy, disorienting atmosphere of the club and found their target.

Anton was the epitome of a sleaze. The women he didn’t “try-out” himself he let his goons sample. And the ones he didn’t own or pay for he silver-tongued into bed with him. He schemed and conned and reaped profits off of the less fortunate. He was a creep. But a creep with excellent intel.

Natasha spotted him at the bar, drinking a Heineken as if that gave him any level of class. He was dressed in a dark red, silky shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and dress pants. His hair was oiled and slicked back, only adding to the overall creep look. But still she approached with pouting lips and a glint in her eyes.

“ _Helló,_ Anton,” she greeted pleasantly.

He looked her up and down and gave an unappealing slurred whistle. “Well I’ll be damned. Natalia Romanova. Don’t you look delightfully bangable tonight.”

She repressed the urge to roll her eyes and sidled up to the bar next to him, fixing him in her smoldering gaze.

“It’s been awhile, Anton,” she purred, teasing his exposed forearm with her fingertip.

“That is has, Natalia.” He pushed some of her hair out of her face and kept his hand on the back of her neck for a moment longer than comfortable. “What have you been up to lately? I know nothing concerned with Red Room.” He dropped his hand to her waist as he took another swig from his beer.   

“Let’s just say I’m free lancing these days.”

“So this isn’t just a social visit?” The leer in his lips made her want to choke. But she kept the smile on. This was the game she had to play.

“Sadly, no, Anton. I need some information.”

The gross glint in his eyes brightened. “Well now that puts me in a bit of bind, sweetie. See, I’m contractually obligated to comply with Red Room and KGB agents, but you aren’t one anymore, darling. So that means you’re going to have to pay me.” Another chug from the bottle and a tighter grip on her waist.

But she was no stranger to this. Leaning in enough to allow him a clean view of her cleavage she whispered loudly over the club music, “I had a feeling you would say that.” She ran one hand down his arm and the other up his chest to rest on his pectoral. She felt his hard nipple through the slick fabric and knew she was making progress. “We could always…negotiate a deal.”

Anton put the empty bottle on the counter along with a bill and suggested, “Why don’t we find some place quieter to talk?”

“Fine by me,” she replied with pouty lips.

He kissed her roughly then on the mouth and she held back an urge to gag. “Let’s get out of here,” he spoke into her ear, following it up with a playful nibble. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and began to lead her out the side entrance into the alley. She suppressed a grin as Anton played right into her trap. With each step he took he became more and more ensnared in her web.   

Before the door even shut, Anton had her up against the wall, his predator’s hunger ready to consume. He kissed and grabbed and played with her roughly. She smiled and performed expertly, leading him further and further into her rouse. But it was not without effort. As Anton’s grabby hands took hold of her body, a dangerous part of her mind slipped to her partner waiting on the roof and, for a fleeting moment, she allowed a rouge fantasy to blossom in her mind. She imagined briefly that is was her partner’s hands on her, his lips pressed on hers.

She repelled that thought from her head and, catching Clint’s eye, she signaled from behind Anton’s arching back.

Her signal could not come fast enough for the archer. Pulling on the string of his loaded bow and lining up the shot, he added to himself, “With pleasure,” before loosing the arrow at its target: the very surface of Anton’s shoulder. The sharp tip ripped the sleaze’s shirt and left a scrape and thin line of blood on the man’s shoulder.

“What the hell?” Anton exclaimed, putting a hand on his injury only to pull it back red and sticky.

His shock was the only window the Black Widow needed. She sent a strategic punch to Anton’s face and followed up with a kick to his gut that brought him to his knees. She smiled as she roughly jerked his head upwards so that he could easily see the roof of the eatery across from them.

“Smile, Anton. Give a wave to my new partner.”

The sleaze did so reluctantly.

“Go ahead and say hi, Clint,” she instructed, knowing the archer’s keen eyes would be on her. Within a second, another arrow appeared, landing in the ground dangerously close to Anton’s crotch. Natasha couldn’t help but find amusement in Clint’s show of jealousy. She decided to use it.

“Long story short, he’s not a fan of other men having their way with me. So, here’s how this is going to work. You’re going to tell me everything I want to know, and he won’t play William Tell with your private parts, got it? And I should warn you, he never misses.”

Anton glared at the woman before him, his eyes hardening. “Go to hell, bitch.”

She crossed her arms and sent a nod in Clint’s direction. The archer grinned as he sent another arrow to land even closer than his last. Anton understood then and nodded slowly in an attempt to mask the fear building inside him.

“Good. Now, where is Monarch keeping the cube?”

Anton stared at her for a moment before his gaze glazed over. Without warning he sent an arm out and forcefully knocked Natasha off her feet. She tumbled and he ran. Clint shot an arrow that landed in the man’s knee, but he was running on pure instinct and adrenaline.

A bang echoed off of the close walls of the alley as Natasha’s gunshot rang out into the cool night air. Anton’s already injured shoulder had been blasted, and, coupled with the metal barb in the back of his leg, the sleaze went down onto the concrete.

Clint slid down the fire escape and stood next to his partner asking if she was all right.

“Fine,” she responded curtly, her eyes not leaving the writhing body of Anton more than a few paces away from where they stood. His cries of agony resounded in the alleyway. “We should probably take him before any authority gets here,” she reasoned.

“Yeah,” Clint agreed mildly, his mind on another issue. “Mind telling me exactly where you were hiding that gun?” He followed her towards Anton.

She turned her head back to him and with a sly smile replied, “You zipped up the dress; figure it out.”

 

Natasha knew that whatever they were up against, it was more than they had anticipated. Anton’s attempt to run told her that Monarch had already gotten to him, scared him out of his wits. She was organized; the spy gave her that.

After some minor torture, Anton finally coughed out some useful intel. He told them Monarch was here in Budapest most likely in a warehouse off the wharf by the way the select few guards she had on rotation smelled when they came into Anton’s club.

“Doesn’t exactly narrow it down,” Barton had commented, pulling on his bowstring a little more.

“Look,” Anton had pleaded, “that’s all I know. I swear to God. These guards weren’t exactly keen on spewing idle chatter, okay. Not with those bomb collars around their necks.”

“What did they look like?” Natasha questioned.

“I don’t know. Silver. Glowing blue.”

Nat turned to Clint and in a low voice asked, “Think they might be powered by the Cube?”

“Kind of like a Hydra weapon?” he added, following her train of thought like only he, as her partner, could. “If so, we might be able to get a lock on the signal, follow a guard right to their base.”

“It’s worth a shot.”

She looked back over at Anton hunched over, tied to a chair, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth were she’d socked him in the jaw earlier. Her immediate reaction was to kill that creep. If they didn’t, he’d be out and warning Monarch in no time. But she was no longer a part of Red Room. She had no orders to take Anton out. She glanced over and found Clint watching her; his gorgeous, ever-vigilant eyes silently asked her what was to come next.

She sighed. What they needed was a counter threat. Something that was far worse than anything Monarch could concoct. Something that would scare Anton into keeping quiet. But that would work better if she knew what it was that Monarch had used. So she picked the extreme to gauge.

Holding her pistol against Anton’s head she threatened him that she’d pull the trigger if he warned Monarch.

The sleaze laughed bitterly. “Go ahead, Romanova. You’d be doing me a sweet little favor.”

She pressed the gun in further. “What do you mean?”

An intensity came into his features that Nat had never seen before. “Pulling that trigger, making it quick and easy, it would be a gift in comparison to the torture Monarch is capable off.” His gaze darkened. “Do you know, I mean, _really_ know what that cube is capable of?” He ended it with an almost imperceptible shiver. “’Cause she told me. And it is not pretty.”       

That caught the spies’ attention. They were only vaguely aware of the cube’s capabilities. They knew it was raw power. They recognized it was dangerous. But did they know, truly know, what it was they were up against? Anton seemed to think death was a better option in comparison.

Natasha looked intently at her partner, her hand not leaving its position of having the gun pressed into Anton’s head. They needed a new plan. Anton could still prove to be useful, but letting him go was completely out of the question. Clint leaned in close to her and whispered, “We tried one end, let’s go opposite.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Offer S.H.I.E.L.D. protection in exchange for his future compliance.”

“He doesn’t even know we are S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Well then let’s make an introduction.”

Barton had the knife out and expertly tossed into the back of the wooden chair Anton occupied before Nat even had a chance to argue. Her gun hand slid back as Clint leaned in close to the man, pulling the knife out and quietly warning, “I’ve never been a fan of people who profit off of other’s pain. But I grew up in it and am not afraid of resorting to it.” He backed up and spoke a little louder. “So, we’re going to offer you a deal: excellent government protection in exchange for your future compliance.”

Anton raised a greasy brow and looked at Natasha. “You’re not just free-lancing, are you?”

She crossed her arms. “What’ll be, Anton? Deal or death.”

He laughed in a humorless way. “Does it matter? Either way I lose my… enterprises. You sweeten the deal by letting me keep my businesses and I’ll take your offer.”

Nat looked at her partner. It was kind of delicate now. But if Anton was in their custody, at least until Monarch was dealt with, there was little harm in promising the sleaze his endeavors. Besides, S.H.I.E.L.D. could always anonymously tip the Hungarian government of Anton’s businesses later.

 

They contacted S.H.I.E.L.D. with the new plan and requested an approximation on the energy level of the cube figuring the collars would read similar. Then they dropped Anton off at the restaurant where they had changed clothes, and Natasha talked with the owners about keeping the lowlife under a careful watch until she returned. They happily obliged and offered the spy some _halászlé_ on them. Clint could only marvel at his partner’s abilities. He’d always held Trick as the greatest conman but Nat was running a very close second.

They made their way into Anton’s club and scouted the joint for the signal. They got a hit on an energy reading from a seedy looking man in the corner and nonchalantly followed him out. Walking at a safe distance and keeping to the shadows, they trailed behind him until he came to a warehouse on the wharf – just like they figured.

Without words they split up. Barton found his way up to the roof, running expertly along rafters and watching the entirety of the place from his high vantage point. Natasha stuck to sneaking in the shadows, melting into the darkness and making not a single sound.

The operation unfolded before them simultaneously from their different spots. There in the middle of the warehouse, under the protection of thick plastic coverings, was the set up for a lab. Chemistry equipment lined the back curtain of plastic and two techs ran around in white lab coats, scribbling notes. In front of them, strapped to chairs, sensors stuck to their temples, were strong, burly men.

Both Hawk and Widow watched intensely as one of the lab tech approached the man in the middle of the line, needle in hand. The tech injected the man with the contents of the syringe and within seconds, the man was shaking violently, screaming out with all of his might, sweat beading on his forehead. A heart monitor displayed his rapid pulse and eventual flatline.

“Hawkeye, are you seeing this?” Nat asked over their shared comm.

He replied, “If what you’re seeing looks like the beginnings of a super soldier lab, then yes.”

The lab techs nodded to some guys standing in the opposing corner and they came up to haul the now dead patient away. Hawkeye scanned the area, checking his readings to make sure he wasn’t missing anything. “Nat, you see the cube?”

There was silence on the line for a moment. “No. I take it you-”

She stopped suddenly when one of the lab techs addressed an approaching woman. “ _Boyus', yeshche odin ne vyzhil. Vozmozhno_ \- " ( _I’m afraid yet another didn’t survive. Perhaps-)_

" _Vozmozhno, vam sleduyet starat'sya_ ,” the woman snapped. ( _Perhaps you should try harder.)_

Clint could hear his partner’s almost inaudible gasp. “Prokofiev?”

“Know her?” he asked quietly.

“Barely. She was only in Red Room for a little while.”

Prokofiev stared intently at the scientist. “That is what you were going to say, right?”

The man nodded quickly. “ _Da_ , Monarch.”

Clint had his bow out and nocked, and was lining up the woman in his sights when Natasha’s voice came over the comm. “Clint, whatever you do, remember we need the cube too. And if you don’t see it, if it’s not showing up then-”

“You don’t think it’s here?” It wasn’t so much a question as it was an end to her sentence. He relaxed a little of his draw weight but kept his target lined up.

“Would you keep a lock and a key in the same place,” Nat reasoned.

His answer was unnecessary. He almost had to grin at how glad he was to have her as his partner, at how well they worked together. He might be in charge of the mission, but it was only on paper. They both were in charge of the mission out here in the field.

“So how d’ya want to play this?”

“I’m thinking a little aerial support to take out immediate threats, you go after Monarch when she runs, and I’ll take care of the rest. Rendezvous outside by the entrance.”

Any other person may have asked if she was sure she didn’t need help. But he knew her. His initial take down would be the only edge she’d need. He loaded the string with three arrows, one in between each finger. “Three enough?”

“Aim for the techs and the guy on the left.” She could see they were clustered enough for him to easily make that shot.

He pulled back on the string. “Ready to make an entrance, Nat.” He heard her slam a clip into her pistol.

“On your go, Barton.”

He steadied his breath, dug his thumb into his cheekbone, anchored his feet, lined up the mark. Release.

The arrows landed in the knees of the techs and the guard on the left. Natasha was out and shooting. Prokofiev took off running.

And Barton pursued up in the rafters – up in the shadows where she would not know where to aim – arrows firing just close enough to keep her separated from the group. He wouldn’t kill her; they needed the cube and she was the key to getting it. But his anger, his revenge, was rising up in his veins. His shots got closer to his running prey as he went to corner her at the back warehouse wall.  

 

Natasha knew the tethered men would break free if they saw her. They may have been drugged but they weren’t stupid. And they were to some degree enhanced with the serum. She was a threat and even in their current state they’d be responsible for neutralizing her.

Monarch turned tail immediately calling out something that Nat swore was along the lines of “release Connor.” She didn’t get much time to contemplate it though as her first attacker was on her.

Barton’s amazing aim had removed one guard but that left two more. They went at her simultaneously but she was more than ready. She slid down to her knees, leaned back, and shot at the one on her left’s knee. He crumbled with the bullet’s entry allowing her to swipe out with her leg on the right and take the second guard’s legs out from under him. He landed hard on the cement and Natasha reinforced her takedown by slamming his head solidly against the ground. He was down. The second guard received another bullet to the knee and one to his each of his shoulders. He couldn’t walk and couldn’t shoot

The first of the tethered men attacked next, his bonds hanging from his wrists with parts of the chair still attached. He was flailing them like a weapon but his approaches were sloppy with the drug. She got a hold of a chair piece, jerked his arm with enough force to dislocate his shoulder and tossed him aside.

 _One down. Three to go._    

     Prokofiev backed up against the wall, gun pointed at her invisible assailant. She tightened her gaze and searched the dark corners for the source of the arrows. She had never seen a take down like this. Her short time in Red Room had taught her many lessons about the kind of weapons that people could become. But this was something she’d never witnessed; this level of precision was beyond anything she’d ever seen.

She knew her attacker wasn’t going to kill her. At least, not from a distance. If he wanted her dead she would be by now, unless he wanted the kill to be close, personal. And could she really blame him?  

Out of nowhere an arrow hit the wall behind her.  

“ _Vy propustili_ ,”she remarked, a despicable grin taking over her face. ( _You missed.)_

“ _YA nikogda ne propuskayu_ ,” Clint answered from the rafters. ( _I never miss.)_

The arrowhead broke open and the gas escaped with a hiss.

Prokofiev fell to the ground as the fast gas dissipated and stung her. Blacking out she saw him drop from the high beams, a vision true to his name. _A hawk in the rafters,_ she thought, her vision fading.

The second she was out, Clint slung her over his shoulder and went to rendezvous with his partner.   

“Nat,” he called through the comm in his ear when he didn’t see her at the meeting point yet.

A loud groan sounded in the background as she replied, “Just finishing up.” She showed up at the warehouse entrance seconds later. She was smiling.

“Happy, ‘Tasha?” he asked, shifting Prokofiev’s weight on his broad shoulder.

“I love it when it’s easy,” she quipped, pushing past him. She’d taken down five men under the influence of a version of super soldier serum and it was easy? He hated her skill level some times.

“Yeah, well we’re not done yet-”

Out of nowhere a taxi landed on its side no more than a meter from them. A bellow rang out and shook the warehouse walls as a large creature stormed down the street. It looked human, and perhaps had once been. But the guy was entirely juiced on serum. He stood seven feet or better, had rippling muscles from head to toe, and was charging at them with a speed Natasha had only seen in movies. _This must be Connor._

Clint dropped Prokofiev behind the sideways cab, nocked an arrow in his bow, and began firing. “Still think it’s easy, Nat.”

“Oh, this is the fun part, Clint,” she retorted, flashing him a grin as she reloaded her pistols and shot with both.

The behemoth reacted minimally to the shots but the assassins were puncturing holes into his thick skin. He roared with every new shot, deep feral cries of a man no longer human. Clint landed an arrow in the man’s eye socket and it took a minute for it to register. He was close now, too close. The pain from the arrow lodged in part of his brain finally dawned on him and the beast roared. Natasha cut off his bellow mid-cry with a solid shot to his forehead. He crumbled, the taxi crunching into a new shape as he fell onto it.

Even Prokofiev’s last resort hadn’t stood up to the agents.

“Yep, still easy,” Nat teased. She had a small line of blood down her cheek from where one of the guards had clipped her. Clint was covered in sweat and dirt from the rafters, and she was sure she didn’t look much better.     

Picking up Prokofiev, he responded with a fait laugh. “Maybe, but I won’t be forgetting it anytime soon,” he added as they stepped around the man-monster. A pang of pity entered him as he looked at the destroyed man. This is what the cube did, what Monarch did. The woman slung over his shoulder deserved to die a thousand times over for the number of lives she’d stolen, destroyed, and mutilated. But no arrow could pierce her lack of heart until S.H.I.E.L.D. had the cube. And that was the only reason she was still alive.

 

They dragged her to the same place where they’d interrogated Anton. The effects of the gas were wearing off and Prokofiev’s head lolled around on her neck a moment before her eyes opened and she focused on the icy glares of the agents before her. A grin crept on to her face.

“Natalia Romanova,” she greeted. “ _Eto bylo nekotoroye vremya_.” ( _It’s been a while.)_

“Where’s the cube, Prokofiev?”

Monarch sighed heavily. “ _Ugh,_ your accent has taken on his atrocious qualities.” She tilted her head towards Clint, the sick smile staying plastered to her face.

“Where’s the cube?” Barton asked, eyes intense and as dull as the North Sea in winter.

Her grin never wavered. “It’s no fun if I tell you.”

“How ‘bout an arrow through your heart, that sound fun?”

“Delightful.” She leaned back in the chair in which she was tied up, taking in a deep breath and sighing it out in an attitude of boredom. “Oh, come on, Barton. Play the game.”

“And what game’s that?” He folded his arms over his chest. _And you thought it was easy, Nat._

“The one where you ask all the wrong questions, and I sit here and gloat.”

“What makes you so sure you’ve won?” Natasha piped in.

“Because who has the cube, Natalia?” At the lack of answer Prokofiev continued to grin manically.

Barton shifted, his eyes narrowing. “But we have you.” 

Monarch laughed, long, loud. She let it sink into Barton’s bones before finally allowing it to die down and echo off the rafters. “You think so, do you? You think Hawkeye, the great archer, the one who never misses, has done it again. But you’re wrong, Clint Barton. Your ever-vigilant eyes have failed you. You’ve missed. You’ve missed _everything!_ ”

Natasha watched as Clint’s jaw tightened, his fists following suit. She flashed him a glance that alerted him to his response; her calm green eyes warned him to not let Monarch in his head. His hands relaxed ever so slightly to let her know he understood.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Prokofiev,” Nat proceeded. “You are going to tell us where the cube is or we will kill you here and now.”

The ever-present grin widened. “Natalia, has he made you forget? We are already dead. The first thing they do to us in Red Room is kill us. And then from our corpse they build us into something new. Threatening me with death is threatening a ghost. You cannot kill something that is already dead.”

“Wanna bet?” Clint jabbed, arrow nocked and aimed at her.

The grin stayed.

The string tightened.

“Hawkeye, Widow, you there?” The voice in the comm was familiar and welcoming.

Natasha answered, “Go ahead, Coulson.”

“An extraction team is on its way to the location I gave you. They’re ten minutes out and will hold for no more five. Can you make it?”

“On our way, Coulson.” She stared down the woman who once shared the same fate as her. But Natasha Romanov had been spared and she could never forget the second chance she’d been given. Prokofiev wouldn’t be so lucky. “Okay, squirrel brains, let’s go.”

 

The eatery had been strategically only a few minutes away from the small park that would soon double as an airfield. The spies, their hostages in tow, made their way towards the landing helicopter, the noise roaring and rolling above them with the blades.

“Agents,” the pilot addressed. He glanced at the four people and then back down at his manifest containing his orders. “It says I’m to pick up two people and a package.”

Clint shoved Prokofiev and Anton onto the aircraft and turned to the pilot, handing him a piece of paper. “There. Two people and a package.”

The pilot stared at the paper in his hand. “This is a letter.”

“What are you, the post office? It’s a package. And it’s confidential. Don’t read it and just make sure Fury gets it.”

The pilot shrugged and after motioning the agents to stand back, he took off, Monarch and sleaze secure in the backseat.

“You think she’ll escape, hijack the chopper, and go rouge again?” Clint asked his partner.

Nat raised the object she had in her hand. A tracer. “If she does, we may just find the cube.”

Barton smiled at that. He stretched his arms for a moment, suddenly tired and missing the ride home they’d just given up. They knew their extraction wouldn’t account for the two prisoners they’d acquired and they didn’t have the cube. Clint had had the idea of explaining it all in a note to Fury, therefore giving the pilot exactly what he was sent to get.

It meant they’d miss their ride back to S.H.I.E.L.D. but he and Nat had gone through plenty of missions without extraction teams before.   

“I don’t suppose we could go back to that Red Room hot spot for a bite to eat?” Clint asked.

Nat smiled, took his hand for a moment to pull him along with her, and then let go before she found herself liking the sensation of his warm, calloused fingers entwined with hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was a long one, I know. But I hope you enjoyed it. Things are getting tricky now… 
> 
> (Translation all came from Google. Blame them if it's wrong.) 
> 
> Thanks again to those who read, comment, Kudos, and bookmark. I love you all!!!


	22. прелюдия: 4

Control.

It was the word of Red Room’s god, the only word that mattered. Above all else remain in absolute control. Control a situation. Let us control you. We do control you. We control what you eat, how you think, how you feel, where you go, who you are. We control who you spend time with, who you sleep with, who you marry, who you kill.

Control.

I was in a simple white gown. Sleeveless, lace on the bodice, a black and red ribbon tied around my middle. My hair was done up in ringlets.

Svetlana, my handler, finished shuffling some papers and shoving them into a file folder before addressing me, “You know why this merger must occur, Natalia.”

I nodded once.

“Good.” She went back to organizing papers and straitening her desk.

Control.

He entered a few moments later, tall with dark hair and dark eyes. Svetlana gave him a smile and informed me, “Natalia, this is your new husband, Alexi Shostakov.”

I stood to greet him. His eyes were so dark; I looked in them desperately for any sign of color: green, brown, blue. Nothing. Just black.

“Shall we begin?” Svetlana pushed.

The ceremony was simple, Alexi took my hands and Svetlana spewed a few words. “You may kiss,” she stated blankly after the “I dos.”

Alexi pressed his lips to mine and a shiver went down my spine that was raw and vicious. He had the coldest kiss I’d ever felt. His lips were ice and later that night I’d find his body to be the same.

Almost a year later, he died. They labeled it “mysterious circumstances.”


	23. Chapter 11: It Means We Missed

They’d debated about a hotel room, but Natasha informed him she had a safe house not too far out. It was secluded, nestled in the woods, out of the way of the city. It would be a nice retreat after their mission, even if it was only for the night. They’d catch a flight out tomorrow.

The drive was quiet and Nat could tell Clint was wrestling with what had just happened. Their take down had been smooth, easy. _Maybe too easy,_ she thought before shaking it off. It didn’t necessarily need to be difficult, did it? She guessed not and figured she was just expecting more resistance since it had been such a high priority mission.

But that wasn’t the part her partner was beating himself up over. She knew that. She knew he was replaying Prokofiev’s taunts over and over in his head, trying to sort them out, find what was the truth and what were lies.

Sure enough, after they’d reached the safe house and gone inside Clint asked, “What did she mean by ‘you missed everything’?” He took off his flak vest, stretching and rubbing at his shoulder.

“She’s just trying to wind you up, Clint. Fuck with your brain a little,” Nat answered undoing her Widow’s Bite and laying out the cuffs on the safe house’s kitchen table. “Don’t worry about it.” She was too exhausted to let Prokofiev’s comment get to her even if she did believe it meant anything.

Clint stripped down one more layer and took off his tight, grey undershirt. He was turned away as he did so and Natasha hated herself for loving the way the muscles in his back moved under his skin.

“But what if she’s right?” he went on.

“She’s not right, Clint. She’s crazy.” She ran her fingers through her hair in an attempt to bring some order to it. She gave up with a sigh and faced her shirtless partner. She’d seen Clint’s chest before, at least a thousand times in training alone, but it never failed to force her to collect herself, her thoughts and stray emotions. “Besides, we have her now.” She walked over to him, looking him straight in the eyes and smiling added, “It’s over. We got Monarch.”

He grinned wide at that and nodded. “Yeah, we did, didn’t we.”

Her smile faded into more of a smirk. “How’s it feel?”

Impossibly, he grinned wider. “Pretty damn awesome.”

Something in the air shifted. She became aware of their closeness and he felt the heat of her skin near his. His heart was pounding with excitement from the mission’s success and he couldn’t think of a better way of celebrating.

“’Tasha,” he whispered. But her eyes were already on him.

She wasn’t anticipating it; it caught her so off guard. His lips were on hers, gentle but firm and she wasn’t sure how to respond. But her mind quickly shut off and she did the unthinkable: leaned in. She kissed him back, enjoying the flood of released emotion going through her. She always wore her mask a little looser when it was just her and Clint, but it almost scared her at how easily he’d stripped it off. She felt his arms tighten around her as she braced a hand to his cheek. He was warm against her.

But he was a comfort she knew she couldn’t have.

That thought infected her and she pulled away roughly.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she panted, still recovering.

Reality hit him hard and left pain in his slate blue eyes. “Right. No, I... Sorry, I-”

“I mean we-”

“No. It-I-I…” He clamed up. The pain in his gaze strengthened as he tried to hide it. “Adrenaline.”

“Right,” she agreed a little too quickly. Her heart was beating rapidly in her chest. She took in a deep breath. “I’m going to clean up.”

He didn’t reply as she made her way for the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She leaned up against the wall and slid down it after a moment. What had she been thinking? Clint wasn’t… he was her partner. Nothing more. _Nothing_ more. The kiss had just been adrenaline, a release of happiness from avenging his team and brother. But she couldn’t shake the heat of it, not even after a cold shower. She could still feel him against her, could still sense his arms strongly wrapped around her. She detested her enjoyment of it. She’d joined in and encouraged his slip up, and hated herself for it. 

She stayed in the bathroom for hours, scared to face him and the pain in his eyes. It had been a sharp stab in her chest, those eyes. She sighed deeply, her head aching and her body exhausted.

She opened the door to find that he’d fallen asleep on the couch, so she crept to the bedroom on the other side and curled up under the sheets.

Unwantedly her thoughts swam to all the times they’d ended up sharing a bed: after long shifts in uncomfortable conditions and neither wanted the floor, nights when their dreams had turned dark and they were too afraid to face them alone. Natasha had grown used to waking up with her head on her partner’s shoulder or his hand on the side of her upper arm. Those were nights that didn’t mean anything except reassurance that they had each other’s backs. She wanted to go back to that.

But this kiss had changed things.

She knew she could shake it off, and intended to, but it had shown her that she’d allowed herself to gain a very prominent weakness: her partner. And she knew she’d have a struggle ahead of her to rid herself of that weakness. He’d still be her partner, they worked together too well for her to be transferred, but he’d only be her partner. She decided to close down her troubling feelings towards him and continue on as if none of it had ever happened.

Closing her eyes tightly she drifted off to sleep.   

 

She awoke to a sound that wasn’t right. A high-pitched beep echoed through the safe house, every wall seemingly a soundboard. She threw off the covers, grabbed her pistol by the bed, and sidled out the bedroom door. Clint was still asleep on the couch and for second she wondered how the resonating tone hadn’t awoken him. But as she looked carefully she noticed he was on his side, his deaf ear turned upwards.

She cleared the living room and connected kitchen before making her way towards him. Keeping her gun up, she shook him awake. He jolted up, pulling in a sharp breath.

“Nat?”

She put a finger to her lips. “You hear that?” she whispered extremely quietly.

He paused a moment before nodding and whispering back, “Where’s it coming from?”

They both looked around, scouting the safe house from their very still positions on the couch. It was louder to Natasha’s left and when she looked over she noticed a small, red dot flashing on the TV’s control panel below the screen. She carefully walked over to it and found it was a button. Clint was next to her, gun also drawn.

She looked at him for confirmation and he gave it to her in a nod. She pressed the button.

The TV screen came to life. It was surveillance footage. Prokofiev was against the wall, gun pointed. Out of nowhere an arrow hit the wall behind her.

“ _Vy propustili_ ,”she remarked, a despicable grin on her face. ( _You missed.)_

“ _YA nikogda ne propuskayu_ ,” Clint’s voice answered off camera. ( _I never miss.)_

The arrowhead broke open and the tear gas escaped with a hiss. 

Then the video feed cut out and was replaced with a black screen and a manipulated voice that echoed out, “Neither do I.” The screen went to color test bars.

“Wha-” but Clint would never finish.

The tone lengthened and cut off.

There was a breath of silence.

“Clint, get down!” Nat screamed as she pushed him away, landing on him, sheltering him from the rippling blast.

The heat was extensive, the sound deafening. The whole house was illuminated by the ball of flame that arose from the bomb and engulfed the structure. Flames roared around them as the blast leveled out.

Nat screamed desperately as she felt the tongues of fire grasped her. She couldn’t even comprehend the heat as her hair and clothes ignited. Pain and panic gripped her; she screamed some more.

“’Tasha!” Clint yelled out, gaining a hold on the scene. His head was spinning from where it had hit the floor, but he comprehended the situation enough to grab Nat’s blazing figure and bolted for the collapsing wall. With the strength he had left, he broke through the charred and flaming barrier into the snow outside. Smoke seeped into his lungs as he rolled her in the drifts to extinguish the fire clinging to her.

Her eyes were half closed but she heard the horrible sound of wood weakening and collapsing. Her mind rocketed back to the fire that killed her parents and she found herself even more terrified. The snow was cold on her skin, the burns on her back vicious. She had no mask left to hide behind and began crying out wildly. Clint gripped her, pulled her up from the snow, and carried her bridal style to the driveway. But the car had been a victim of the explosion. He cursed and buried his face on hers for a moment. She could sense his own fear and worry. For a moment she tried to muster up the strength to tell him to get out of the snow; she knew how it affected him. But all she got out was a weak, “Clint,” before she blacked out.

Her eyes peeled open for a moment when her nerves awakened slightly with intense pain. She screamed out and suddenly felt his hand lightly on her face. She blanked again.

Clint had been lucky that the guy had not only been traveling the back road, but had stopped and given them a ride. Nat was wrapped up in a snow-filled blanket in the back to keep the burns at bay. He was afraid the cold would get to her, but her skin still felt warm enough. The man dropped them off at the hospital in a near-by town and Clint hauled Nat in. He must’ve looked awful because they addressed him and his partner immediately.

“You gotta help her,” he slurred. His own body had suffered burns and his lungs were full of smoke and ash.

They took Nat and he collapsed into a chair in the waiting room.

When he woke up he was in a hospital bed, crisp, white bandages tied around his hands and forearms where the fire from Nat’s body had scalded him. He figured they had him on morphine because he didn’t feel much and soon slipped under again.

 

His eyes blinked open and took longer than they really should have to adjust to the light. He was barely awake when he felt the tightness in his chest. He coughed. And coughed. Hard hacks and disgusting phlegm rising in his throat. A nurse was there suddenly to help him, telling him things in Hungarian. He knew very little of the language and could only guess at what she was saying to him. But in the end the coughing subsided enough for him to get a drink of water and fall back down on the pillows behind him. He drifted into sleep roughly and woke up startled at a sudden presence change in the room.

“It’s just me,” Agent Coulson defended quietly, putting his hands up in a gesture of innocence.          

Barton closed his eyes and tried to take a deep breath but his lungs would only let him go so far.

“Glad to see you’re awake,” Coulson commented, sitting down in the chair next to the bed. “Feeling any better?”

Clint wasn’t sure how to respond; doing so would require him having known what had happened. He recalled it as much as he could: the message, the fire, the cold snow, and Nat.

His eyes flew open. “Nat!”

Coulson placed a hand on one of Clint’s bandaged wrists. “She’s okay.”

He jerked back his hand. “No. No! Coulson, there was the bomb and the fire. She-she was on fire! I had to get her out of there and into the snow. And it was cold and I didn’t- didn’t…”

His eyes were steady as he regarded the marksman. “You saved her. She’s okay.”

Clint was suddenly exhausted; his head lolled. He noticed the window then and remembered the view. There had been mountains in the distance and a white frame around the pane where frost had accumulated. Both of which were now gone.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Back at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. I pulled you and Agent Romanov out of the facility in Budapest, wiped your patient logs and cleaned up the place. You were never there.”

Barton nodded but he wasn’t sure at what. After a second he asked, “Where’s Nat?”

Again Coulson replied, “She’s okay.”

But Baton didn’t miss the flicker of doubt in the agent’s eyes. “Coulson.” It wasn’t a question so much as a plea. Clint needed the truth.

Coulson’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly. “She _is_ okay, Clint. She has mostly first and second degree burns, very few third, but with her regeneration abilities from the Red Room serum she’ll probably heal faster than you.” He followed it up with a careful grin to give it some joking quality. But the marksman didn’t crack a smile.

Coulson stood up. “I take it Prokofiev isn’t Monarch then. I mean with the bomb going off while she was in our custody…”

Clint closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the world crawling onto his shoulders. Dry-mouthed and tight-lipped, he responded, “No. I missed.” He shook his head slowly, trying to ignore the pain it swelled up. He took in a breath and asked, “So what’s next?”

Coulson stood extremely still. “Barton,” he began. “Clint, you’re off the case.”

“What?” Disbelief dripped from his features.

“You’ve repeatedly demonstrated an inability to handle this case. You’re too close to it.”

“No, you can’t do this!” he screamed, costing him precious energy. But he was too livid to care. “Coulson, I need this case. For my team, my brother, Trick-”

“Clint, you haven’t given us Monarch or the cube, and you’ve gotten yourself and your partner injured. I’m sorry, but it’s apparent that you cannot handle this case.” 

“So you’re just going to let Monarch get away?”

“We’ll send a team out.” A pause. “Don’t worry, Barton. We’ll get her.”

Clint wanted to laugh bitterly at that. Monarch had slipped him and Natasha. No team could go up against her. But the look on Coulson’s face was unmoving. He’d been given orders.

Clint looked away slowly, still lost in the surrealism of the situation. He’d screwed up and knew it. His exhaustion returned then. Coulson must’ve noticed.

“Get some rest,” he instructed. “We’ll debrief you and Agent Romanov later.”

He turned to leave when the marksman called out after him, “Anton and Prokofiev. They’re both still on custody, right?”

Agent Coulson frowned. “I can’t divulge that information to you anymore. It’s classified.” He left, his words a stabbing pain in Clint’s chest. How could things have gone so wrong? _Prokofiev was right,_ he thought. _I missed everything._

“You fucked up, Barton,” he murmured to himself, closing his eyes and once again drifting restlessly to sleep.

 

Within twenty-four hours he was fully conscious and released from the med bay at S.H.I.E.L.D. with new bandages around his forearms and hands. They’d wound the gauze around each individual finger up to the second knuckle to allow him movement and he appreciated that more than they’d ever know. He couldn’t stand having anything but his leather guards on his arm and wrist; even when working a cover, he tried hard to keep those areas clear and mobile.

As soon as he was cleared, he went to find his partner. She was still on drugs to keep her asleep and give her body time to heal. He knew the second she’d wake up she’d want to be back to work. But they had no case anymore, and he wasn’t sure what to do now.

He sat on the edge of her bed and felt the world’s weight increase as he observed her. She was wrapped in gauze for her burns from her neck down to her lower back. Her skin was pink and agitated in places where it showed near the bandages and uncomfortably white elsewhere. Her arms just had a few gauze pads taped to the backs of them since the burns were not as bad. But it was her head that hit him hard. It was wrapped like the rest of her but it was just skin underneath. Her hair, all her beautiful red hair had been burnt to a crisp and fallen off.

Clint closed his eyes tightly. “It’s all my fault, Nat,” he whispered, his voice on the edge of breaking. “I did this to you. Got you involved…”

He collapsed his head into his hands. “’Tasha.” He rubbed at his jaw, ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t know what to do, Nat. They’ve taken the case. They won’t tell me anything. Nat…”

He looked at her, his heart breaking in time to the rise and fall of the green peaks on the monitor. What had he been thinking? He’d gotten her involved in this and it was his fight. Only his fight. He should have never brought her in to it.

“I don’t know what to do,” he breathed.

He took in a long draw of air. The world added more weight; his chest and skull felt ready to shatter.

“Wake up.” A silent plea. “Wake up, Nat. C’mon, I need your help on this.” He shook his head, gritted his teeth. “Wake. Up.”

There was no response from her but the heart monitor and her slow breathing. His encumbering guilt and frustration accumulated more, pushing him to a tipping point.  

He jumped up, screaming, “Damn it, Natasha! Wake up!”

And then he broke under the weight, reduced to rubble instantly. He leaned his head on hers, moisture rimming his eyelids. “I need you on this,” he begged. “Nat…” he closed his eyes and pushed his forehead onto hers more, hating the coarse bandages blocking her skin. “I need you.”    

He breathed in sharply, fighting to pull himself out of the rubble. She lay there completely still.

Slowly his eyes opened. A terrible comprehension budded forth in his mind and bloomed into his only available option. He knew, knew wholly and completely, what it was that he must do.

He kissed Nat’s forehead, keeping his lips pressed there for a moment as the knowledge of his next step consumed him. He pulled away from her and left the med bay.

S.H.I.E.L.D. said he was off the case. Fine. He’d use that. With it being an unofficial S.H.I.E.L.D. assignment, it meant he didn’t have to operate under S.H.I.E.L.D. regulations. He needed to bring in Monarch, to get the cube.

And he knew just the woman to ask.  

 

Fury sat with his large hands folded on the top of his desk. He was addressing an agent about a development on a case in Seoul. “Good. Report to me when you-”

“Sir,” an intercom rang out.

“What is it?” Fury responded, pushing a digital inlay in his desk.

“Agent Barton, Sir. He’s in the detention center.”

The director quickly switched coms. “Hill,” he ordered.

But she’d already heard the report too. “I’m on it.”

 

Deep in the depths of S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Barton stood facing the woman he had taken down in the name of revenge for his team. And he clinched his fists in anger of the now apparent lie. But he wasn’t going to let it end there.

He had slipped past the agents on duty, but they would undoubtedly do a routine scan of the holding cell. He’d have to work fast.

He sat across from her. Her wrists were bound in handcuffs and a mild sedative had been given to her to keep her mind from being too sharp. But he had calculated that the drug would be finishing it’s course and she’d be due for a new dose soon. Yet another parameter for him to work within.  

He had a plan. It was risky, but it had potential to be worth it.

“Hello, Prokofiev,” he greeted in mockery.

“The Hawk. So good to see you again,” she answered in a similar tone. She smiled sinisterly. “I take it you got the message.”

“Loud and clear.”

The prisoner offered up her shackled wrists. “Then these are no longer necessary. You may free me, Agent Barton. You may let an innocent woman go.”

Barton sighed in defeat and reached into his pocket to pull out the key. He brought it to the lock and then pressed a small button on the side. The handle opened and he slid the needle out. In one fluid motion he grabbed the slim hidden syringe, jammed it into Prokofiev ’s exposed arm, and pressed the plunger down. Prokofiev screamed as the burn of the liquid entered her bloodstream.

“Wha-”

“Pretty bad, huh?” the agent quipped. He grabbed her hand and kept it pressed to the table, palm up, his thumb jabbed into the hollow above her wrist to keep a check on her now rapid pulse. “That’s KQ 49. It’s called that because that’s the amount of time in seconds it takes to destroy every red cell in that muscle mass you call a heart.”

The prisoner continued to let loose outbursts of screams. Her breathing was ragged.

“Stuff’s a bitch; trust me. I spent three weeks becoming invulnerable to it. And three days with it slowly gnawing away at my shoulder. It burns like a mother and it doesn’t subside.”

Prokofiev ’s eyes were wide in horror.

“So here’s the deal. You are going to tell me where the cube is, and I,” he reached into his pocket again, “am going to give you the antidote.” He waved the vial around in a slight tease. “Thirty seconds.”

Prokofiev looked panicked but remained silent. Barton stared her down and then dropped the vial with the antidote.

“No!” the woman yelled. But Barton had caught the vial before it hit the floor.

“Twenty-five, Prokofiev. All I need to know about the cube. Go.”

The operative looked terrified. A single tear rolled down her cheek as the burn continued up her arm. “Go to Hell, Barton.”

“I’m already there, _suka._ ” He grinned slightly. “Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven. Ten.”

“All right!” the woman screamed. “The cube-”

“Five. Four.”

“It’s in Saratov.”

Barton injected the antidote into her arm and instantly she settled down. “You better be telling the truth. Because if I find out you lied-”

“I swear! Please. Don’t. Don’t do that again. Please.”

A tap on the glass behind him and the stormy entrance of Hill told him this interrogation was over.

“Saratov. That’s where the cube is,” he informed Hill with his arms crossed over his chest. He pushed past her and her expression of horror at the hunched over Prokofiev.

“Barton,” Hill called after him, hunting him down. “You are off this case. Stand down; that’s an order.”

“No. Hill-”

“You just tortured a witness for information. You used a toxin that-”

“Relax, Hill. There wasn’t a drop of KQ in that vial. Just some vinegar and a good dose of psychological pain. I convinced her it burned a hell of a lot more than it did. Although, to be fair, the vinegar isn’t one hundred percent harmless, but it won’t straight up kill her.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t care, Barton. You are off-”

“Look, even if Prokofiev knew where Monarch was hiding, she’d have moved anyway. It’d would’ve been outdated intel. Monarch knows she’s being hunted. She may be arrogant, and rightly so, but she’s not stupid. Her and the cube are a lock and a key; one is useless without the other but powerful when together. The best way to keep both safe is not to be in the same area at the same time. Monarch will not be in the same spot as the cube, but she will have it moved. If we want that damn cube we need to leave now.”

“’We’?” Hill almost coughed. “Barton, you are off this case! Your behavior has-”

“-gotten you more intel.” He added to spite her. “You’re welcome.”

Hill glowered at him. “Regardless, you are not allowed in on any information concerning this case anymore, nor any missions that may come of it. Regulation states that-”

“With all due respect, Hill, you can take regulation and shove it up your ass. And you can pass that message on to Fury. I’m going after the cube. And it’s not for S.H.I.E.L.D. It’s for a friend.”

The assistant director had had enough. “You take one more step, Barton, and I will put this entire complex on lockdown. There is no way you are getting off base.”

“Then you obviously don’t know me very well, Hill.”

She glared at him but he didn’t back down in the slightest. But her gaze darkened, her hand moving to her gun. “Stand down, Barton. You are off this case.”

His eyes didn’t leave hers but he knew when to step back. This was Hill; she wouldn’t even bat an eye if she shot him down so long as she believed she had a right to do so. He turned his head and nodded slowly, convincingly.  

Hill’s hand moved from her gun as she grabbed his arm, shoved him ahead of her, and followed him out of the containment cell. “Be aware, agent,” she began, her voice harsh, “that one day I will be in charge of all of this. And if you keep up this kind of behavior, the first one to be fired will be you.”   

  _And you, Hill,_ he thought, _will be the first one fired at._

…

He waited until no one was watching him, until they believed that he was truly no longer a threat. He was just an agent, confused and angry, injured and concerned for his partner. No one paid attention to him as he made his way onto the tarmac and checked the paperwork. He climbed into the fueled jet nonchalantly, blending in with the other workers milling about the aerial machinery. With the planes being serviced, no one was going to fly in. He requested a test flight from the tower through the headset, fed them information, and when they granted it, he took off.

He didn’t circle back.

He knew he’d catch hell for it, but he didn’t care. Prokofiev had given him the location of the cube. Its energy signature would lead him to it. And he hoped Monarch would be there, waiting, because he had an arrow with her name on it.  

 

The warehouse was dingy, dirty, and damp. It was abandoned by the looks of it. The odor of fish, ammonia, and gasoline, wafted up from the damp cement floor. It was noticeably cold, and pale sunlight attempted to filter in from the grimy windows high up the steel-beam-supported walls. At the back, there was a door that led to a built-in, abandoned kitchen.

He sat up in the rafters and scanned the place, checking every shadow for movement. There was none and that concerned him. If the cube was here, like the energy readings he’d gotten said it was, then there would be someone guarding it.

  The hair on the back of his neck was standing on end. Something was wrong. And yet there was no movement, no sound; nothing stirred.

Cautiously he clambered down from his perch and surveyed the space at ground level. Still nothing. But the energy readings said the cube was here.

There was _nothing_ here.  

A _click_ resounded from somewhere, directionless in the reverb of the empty warehouse’s bare walls. He loaded an arrow and spun around, but there was nothing to shoot at.

Then he saw it. Smoke billowed up from under his feet. His eyes began to burn wildly. He coughed and choked on the gas being released under his feet. He loosed the arrow in retaliation for being taken so effortlessly. How the hell did he fall into a trap so easily?

He crumbled to the ground, his bow clattering as it fell beside him. He distantly heard the clacking of high heels on concrete. A female voice rang out and echoed in his fuzzy skull, “It’s been a long time, Barton.” Rough hands gripped him and he futilely resisted. They punched him in the face and ribs to get him to be more complacent. In one motion they took and snapped his arrows, discarding them into the increasing shadows. His gaze darted to his bow only to see it snatched up.

“No,” he slurred in protest.

His eyes couldn’t stay open any longer so he would never know how they did it, but the worst cracking sound he’d ever heard resounded over and over in his muddled head, followed by the horrible noise of the pieces hitting the ground at separate times.

The last thing he noticed before going under was a haunting melody. A familiar tune hummed by a familiar voice, sad and lonely. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh things are getting crazy now. Strike Team: Delta is in disarray. Nat's unconscious, Clint's in trouble, Hill's pissed. There's this mystery woman. Things aren't looking to good for our heroes. 
> 
> We're in the home stretch, people.   
> Remember, after this story I'm posting Room for Rent which is a Clintasha 1940s AU. And then - pending my finishing it in time - I'll be posting the third installment of Island of Misfit Boys. So keep an eye out if you are interested and/or in need of some thirteen-year-old Clintasha "drama." (Yes, in quotes because, let's face it, drama is a relative term.) 
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who has read, commented, Kudos-ed, and bookmarked. I greatly appreciate and love you. :)


	24. прелюдия: 5

Rumors run ramped at Red Room. In the close-knit circles of shattered women trying to piece themselves back together after a mission, gossip was traded off like bandages. It was one of few things we could do to keep our minds from lingering on what we’d just done; one of the few things we were allowed to do before they wiped our memories clean.  

I’d only been on about half a dozen assignments before I realized how vital those moments were. We needed each other to bolster our spirits and remind us that we were not alone. We’d talk amongst ourselves about scraps of memories and take a vote on if they were real or not. We’d drink vodka and let the liquid burn away any fear or regret fragments persisting in our souls. Our tongues would flap with the latest news of the underground world, the black marketers, and new opponents on the circuit. And with scrapes all bandaged, ribs all wrapped, and broken bones casted, we’d depart for rest or our next mission, depending on our conditions.

It was never the same group twice.  

It was always the same kind of news.

But one time the gossip varied to include rumors of Monarch. Wild stories were spun about how she had faked being crazy to get out of Red Room and was now moving across Europe one step ahead of Red Room’s hired hunters. Some claimed that she’d reacted so badly to the revised serum that they gave us as part of our programming that Red Room had to put her down. Others said that she’d simply died on a mission.

I remember wanting to believe that she had escaped. I wanted it to be true because deep down I wanted to follow her out. But I knew I had no escape from Red Room and that Monarch was probably just a legend, a tale grossly twisted by flailing tongues and partial memories.

But the image, the innate fear, stayed hidden deep in my bones.


	25. Chapter 12: The True Monarch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! This chapter is rated mature for explicit violence, torture, and language. There's blood too, so graphic warning as well. You have been warned.

The bag came off, but the blindfold stayed on. The drug wore off slowly as Agent Barton sluggishly came to. The stuff was potent, detaching, and with the blindfold still on, his senses weren’t responding all that quickly. The cloth came off his eyes and he became aware of the surroundings, the situation.

He was in the warehouse still, one probably used for fish prep if the smell and adjoining small kitchen were anything to go by. His wrists were bound in twisted cable that bit into his skin. He could feel the blood and bruises already forming. His face was raw and slightly swollen from the earlier roughing.

Voices came from the left. They were muffled from the drug still retreating out of his system. But then he heard one crystal clear and the world he thought he knew shattered.

“So good to see you again, Agent Barton.” The tone was a pleasant, feminine, and highly British.

“Agent Stiers.” He scoffed as she came into view. “Somehow it makes more sense this way. You being Monarch.”

She smiled a little venomously. He smiled back.

“So are you going to kill me or what?”

She sank down to one knee, putting her eyes level with his as he sat on the floor, tied to the pole. “Eventually. I can’t risk you taddle-telling about the program, the formula. But for now, we wait.”

“For what?”

“Oh, come on, Barton. Figure it out. I know you can, what with that brilliant mind of yours.”

It took a moment but he pieced it together. Monarch was part of Red Room and the only other connection he had to that organization was still back state-side, recovering.            

“You really think she’ll come?” he tested, a strategically doubtful tone in his voice.

“I have three quarter a million reasons sitting in a private account in Switzerland for why she should try. Not to mention my promotion.”

“Wouldn’t you have to get back into the clubhouse first?”

“Hmm,” she circled him a little. “You really have no idea how valuable the pair of you are. I’ve promised to give Red Room back one of their best operatives. And to take out one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s. That could give me a reinstatement tenfold.”

“But it’s not just reinstatement that you’re looking for, right?” He challenged. She finished her round and locked her hard gaze on his. “You managed to worm your way to the top. And I’m guessing Nat and I weren’t the only cards you played.”

“You always did catch on quickly, Barton.” She knelt down to his level, moved in closer and dropped her voice to a whisper. “So tell me my next move.” She smiled.

He looked away, unable to handle the sick grin she had plastered on her face. But he knew she expected, demanded, an answer. And he knew what that answer was. “You pitched them the program.”

“Yes.” It was so simple, her answer, that it caught him and drew him in.

“How’d you get them to even believe you? Show some data you had stashed away, safe from the attack on S.T.R.I.K.E.?”

She looked at him, a mix of curiosity and appeasement in her features before she turned away and walked into the shadows a little. He caught sight of the gentle glow of a computer screen.

“But you did more,” he went on. “You would’ve had to in order to get them to buy into it. What’d you do? Show a clip of the training footage?” 

“No, Clint.” She moved back over to him, her eyes on the object enveloped in cloth in her hand. She unwrapped it to reveal a small syringe with the familiar formula inside. She went behind him to his trapped arms. Deliberately she pushed on the crook of his elbow to get his vein to surface. She slipped the needle into his skin and he could feel the icy sensation go through him as the liquid was plunged into his bloodstream. The familiar feeling of fiery adrenaline shot throughout his body. He knew the odd revival of his systems would follow soon. Cold, sticky electrodes were placed on his temples and down under his vest and shirt onto his chest and back.

She came back around to face him. “I promised a live demonstration.”

The computer screen made sense. She was streaming this to executives, employers, and directors at Red Room. He was on display, a science project for all to see.

“I promised them an exhibition of the limits of the program. You see, Clint, you’re going to show us not only what this serum can do, but where lies the threshold of all human functions. We’re going to run you into the ground, Clint Barton. Physically, mentally, emotionally. We’re going to drain you, deplete you. We’re going to show what happens when you take the best, and you put every one of his cells under stress. We’re going to find you’re breaking point, and then we’re going to surpass it.”

He heard the whine of machinery starting up. The electrodes seemed to warm up slightly. Stiers came close to him again. She reached out a hand and latched onto his left shoulder. She felt around on it, tracing scar tissue, digging into the twisted muscle, feeling the metal plate and small bumps of the screws. “Ugh, such a mess.” The gun cocked. She aimed. She now knew exactly the place to shoot.

She pulled the trigger.

Pain, new and old, exploded through him as the blood splattered opposite the bullet’s entry with a wet, sloppy sound. He screamed, grinding his teeth to keep from crying out more.

“Oh, careful, Clint. You’re heart rate’s up.”

He became distantly aware of the rapid cadence of an EKG close by. Stiers knelt in front of him. “Now, why don’t you tell our audience how you first hurt your shoulder, hmm?”

“Go to hell,” he breathed.

She frowned. She took out a knife and drove the tip up into the bleeding gunshot wound, tearing the hole wider. He yelled some more. His breathing picked up.

“The less you talk, the more this hurts,” she explained as calmly and simply as a professor to a pupil.

He swallowed hard. He could feel the steady stream of blood going down his left pectoral and abs, falling to his lap and soaking through onto his thigh. He could smell it, the coppery scent mixing with the rank odor of the warehouse. There wasn’t an escape.

“Trick Shot needed help with a job,” he began, somewhat breathy, the drug just beginning to take some of the edge off. “Said there’d be enough cash in it for us both to cut our ties to the cartel mess he’d gotten us into.”

“Who was the target?” Stiers asked, indicating the computer as a reminder that they had an uninformed audience.

“George Gunner. Some drug and arms dealer with a textbook case of paranoia.” The program drug was kicking in and numbing his pain receptors. He could still see the blood pouring down his body, still smell it, but he could no longer feel the intense sting of torn skin and shattered bone.

“And what were you and Mr. Chisholm sent to do?”

The name had caught him off guard a little. He had heard Buck’s real name only a dozen times in the years he’d known him. “Trick and I were supposed to go in, hack the main safe, and make off with the cash and some file for whoever had put together the job.”

“And you had no idea who had employed the pair of you?”

The Hawk shook his head.

“Tell me,” Monarch began, inching the knife blade closer to Clint’s shoulder. “What other instructions were you given?”

He knew what she was fishing for. The electrodes on him were monitoring heart rate and brain function. She was trying to get him angry, to get his emotions riled up. She wanted to see the full effects of the serum: how it would prohibit him feeling anything physically, emotionally. He needed to show that the stuff didn’t work in order for the program to be shut down for good. So in order to fight it, he’d have to let himself slip. He’d have to let his fury take over. But that action could hold innumerable consequences; he’d have no control. The careful, quiet, stealthy Hawkeye took his chances.

“He told me to shoot anything that tried to stop us,” he told Stiers and the unnamed audience with a note of resentment building up in his voice.               

Stiers was a little taken back with the sentiment creeping into his tone. But she pressed on. “And the end result?”

He looked up at her as much as his bruised face would allow. Long ago he had been told that discretion could be his best ally. As long as the world didn’t know he existed he would be safe. But she was poking at scars he had all but healed over. He had once gotten those wounds under control. And now she was going to witness what happens when they burst open.

His eyes narrowed, and his jaw set into a vile sneer. “I shot my brother. And Trick, that son of a bitch, made me leave him there. Jabbed a poisoned arrow into my shoulder and told me he’d kill me if he ever saw me again.” It was taking all he had to fight the drug’s numbing ability. He forced his mind to go back to that night, to relive the nightmare he had kept at bay for so long. He could still feel the dead weight of his brother in his arms. He remembered the pain of the poison going through his blood stream, his immunity to it battling fiercely. He recalled the wail of sirens, the urgency of shouts, the cold cuffs locking his arms to his sides and clipping his wings three days later. That night had cost him everything.

“And you stood by and watched your own brother die?” Stiers questioned. He could sense the warning in her voice and knew she was aware at what he was playing at. And the look in her eyes told him she was not happy about it.

He kept wrestling with the drug as it kept attempting to suppress the rage building up inside him.

He stared at the woman before him and marveled disgustedly at how she had used him and his brother for her own gain. With him it had been as an experiment. But with his brother she had gone deeper. She’d played with his heart and happily left it without a beat. She had gotten him to let his guard down, to trust someone who he thought cared for him. And then she turned on him. Barn had died knowing that everyone he’d ever opened up to had left him empty-handed and without cover. And as the Hawk glared at the woman before him, he saw himself: the abundantly imperfect dark soul and black heart that he held in his own chest. And suddenly the fight against the drug seemed easy.

She was still close to him, knife in hand, poised against his damaged shoulder. “That must have been hard for you,” she toyed.

He lunged at her as best as he could with his arms bound behind the pole. She scurried back some.

“You fucking bitch!” he yelled. “You played him! You got him to drop his guard, to trust you, and then you left him to die!”

“Yes, Clint Barton, but at your hand. You were the one to put an arrow through him. I merely supplied the target.”

“Go to hell,” he repeated his anger gripping him tightly.

She shook her head slowly and shoved the knife into his wound. He screamed at the wild pain that rocketed through him. The wound was a couple centimeters wide by an inch tall and bleeding generously. He knew without a compress he was going to bleed out soon. Stiers knew that too.

She stood up and approached her screen. “Gentlemen, I give you the results of round one.” She keyed something in and then sent the data to them. “As you can see,” she continued, “heart rate returned to just above normal, cognitive function increased by five percent.” She turned to face Clint for a moment, “See how useless a move it was to try to fight the program medication? You’re intelligent struggle only increased neuron activity. You were thinking double time and it shows.” She whipped around back to the screen, continuing, “And synapses in charge of pain receptors increased activity by twenty percent.” She called back to the Hawk, “Rate your pain please, Clint. Scale of one to ten.”

“Piss off.”

She smiled at the digital crowd. “I think we can make that a solid six.” She cleared her throat. “Well, gentlemen, are we ready for round two?”

Only a chorus of beeps indicated their response. Stiers was being extremely careful as to not betray the identity of her potential employers.

She approached Agent Barton again, this time snapping her fingers once. Two brawny men cleared the shadows and stood next to her. She sank to Clint’s low level on the floor and brushed away some of the hair that had fallen onto his forehead. She had picked up a heavy gauze bandage that she taped to his wounded shoulder, and for a second she held his face in her hand. “Such a waste,” she whispered to him.

She turned back to her audience but continued to talk to the Hawk. “I noticed from training and the work you’ve done in the field that you can take a beating, Agent Barton. Care to tell us why that is?”

She was working the mental and emotional angles this time. Clint looked up. He wasn’t giving her an answer, not playing her little game.

She nodded to one of the men that had crawled out of the dank darkness of the place. He approached the Hawk and sent a right hook across his jaw and an uppercut to his ribs. Clint strained against the pole, the wire around his wrists cutting deeper into his skin. He let out a long breath of pain and torment.

“I told you once already,” Stiers went on, “your cooperation guarantees less pain.”  

Agent Barton remained silent. The guards hit him again, tag-teaming to double the impact of each blow. They carried on for a few minutes until Stiers stepped in and said that that was enough. The men parted to reveal a bloody and bruised Hawkeye, eyes – one black and swollen – still hard and disobliging.  

“Why are you fighting this?” she asked.

He barely grinned through bloodied teeth and busted lip. “Like you said, I can take a beating.”

“But you don’t have to.”            

He continued to just glare at her.

“Is it that engrained into your nature?” She received no reply from the Hawk. “Who put it there, I wonder. Jacques? No.” She kept trying to measure his reaction. His eyes were blank, cold. “Your father?”

A small spark.

She smirked. “You want to know how I got to where I am now? How I managed to get on top? It’s because I know everybody’s dirty little secrets. You see, Agent Barton, most intelligence operatives will search for and find a tiny hidden angle to work in order to bring down their target. Not me. I dig deeper; I find the root of the angle. With your brother it was his hubris. That’s where others would stop searching, but I found that his pride was connected to having grown up in your shadow. But that’s not the point. The point is that my little hunt surfaced some useful information about you.

“Your relationship with water is…unique, for lack of a better word. You’re not afraid of it. You’ve had too much damn good training for that. But there’s something about it that sets you on edge. My goal was to find that something. So, correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Barton, but I believe you were five years old, it was winter, and the ice was _just_ too thin to hold you. You fell through and were completely submerged for – what, two minutes? – or there about. And then you were pulled free of the water. Saved by none other than your despicable father.

“Now, for awhile, I thought that perhaps your strange association to water stemmed from such a conflicting view of your father. The man who beat you, saved you. But a little more digging revealed nothing of that nature. Not with his record. How many times was your mother put in hospital from him? And you? Well, this incident wouldn’t be your first.

“He pulled you from the water and started yelling at you. Screaming, calling you horrible things.” She paused a second, gauging the agent’s reaction. She could see her words hitting him and how he was forcing himself to swallow them down. She almost smiled at how futile his earlier attempt was to prove her program ineffective. She had him. And she had yet to get to the big stuff.

“But of the consequences from the incident – the bruised arm, hypothermia, pneumonia – the injury that lasted the longest was your ear.” She knelt down and touched at the folds of cartilage of his left ear. She looked at it, at him, and back again. She leaned in and whispered into his deaf ear, “You really can’t hear a word I’m saying, can you?” The lack of response in his eyes and from his mouth confirmed that.

“How did it happen, Clint?” She loaded the gun with her words, knowing he’d pull the trigger on his own. She was determined to reach his breaking point. She was almost there, she could feel it.

He shook his battered, bruised, and bleeding head. “The cold damaged the nerve.”

“No,” she argued. “What happened? How’d you lose that ear?”

“The cold damaged-”

“No. Clint, we’ve been over this. Cooperation will make this go a whole lot smoother.” She readied the knife, examining his rapid breathing from the drug. She followed the motion of his expanding and contracting ribs with her eyes. “How’d you go deaf in that ear?”

Like clockwork he repeated, “The cold damaged the-”

She shoved the knife up under his ribs. He screamed out the pain and she slid the knife free. “One more time. How’d you go deaf in that ear?”

“The cold-”

She stabbed his chest again, slipping the blade up under his ribs, close to his heart, but just far enough away. He screamed again, but this time he was broken.

“He hit me!” he yelled. “He pulled me from the goddamn water and hit me! Square on the side of my head; it was bruised for weeks.” He swallowed hard, painfully, keeping the stab-wound’s ache at bay. “Everything he was screaming at me just got a hell of a lot quieter.”

“And that quiet’s the key.” She answered, removing the blade and bandaging up the wounds she had just created. “It’s why you have such a strained reaction to water,” she went on. “It’s not the water, it’s not being hit. It’s that when that ear shut down, it turned inward. Half of you could hear the outside world, but the other half heard your insides. It heard the murky heaving of your mucus-full lungs, the terrifyingly faint beat of your heart, the contractions of your freezing organs. Water brings back that memory. It brings back the remembrance of hearing your own body shutting down. Agent Barton, you heard yourself dying. At the age of five, you became overwhelmingly aware of how mortal you were.”

The drug was beginning to wear off of him; it had run its designed, highly accelerated course. His head was starting to swim, the pain all throughout his body was multiplying drastically. She could see his systems blacking out. She held his face at the chin in her hand and asked the last question. “Am I right?”

His cold eyes were full of hatred and pain. “Fuck you,” he replied. She took that as a yes, roughly patted his cheek twice, and let his head lull.

She addressed the digital crowd again and ran down the numbers once more. Clint Barton was losing sensation. His eyes closed and with only one operational ear it was easy to slip away into the welcoming darkness.

He was jerked out of the black by the fiery sensation of renewed adrenaline. It was another dose of the serum. He knew that too much of the stuff too close together was lethal. Then again, he also knew that his death was her ultimate goal.     

“You awake, Agent Barton? Come on, we need you for round three.”

He felt the wire around his wrists drop and rough hands haul him to his feet. Instinctively he tried to shove away, to escape. But he fell to the ground, landing harshly on his knees.

“What did you do to me?” he mumbled, exhausted, confused.

“It’s an altered version of the serum, used as a weapon. Instead of numbing pain and heightening the other senses, it does the inverse.” She held his chin once more in her hand and stared into his disoriented eyes. “I told you I would kill you, Barton. Now you will know how.” She nodded to the two assistants she had on hand. The men pulled Barton to his feet and began to drag him over to the kitchen, to a waiting sink full to the brim of water. His senses were operational enough to understand what was about to transpire and he rebelled as much as the drug would allow him to. But his struggle only resulted in him falling to the ground and being forced back up by rough hands around his damaged wrists and arms.              

“Although it may be preceded by distress which is more noticeable, drowning itself is quick and silent,” announced Agent Stiers as she followed the resisting Hawk to the sink of icy water. She leaned in closely and whispered, “This time it will be finished. You will hear yourself die, inside and out.” She tied a blindfold around his eyes, taking away his strongest sense and gave the order to the guards.

With quick and violent motions, they shoved Hawkeye into the water.

The cold was the first thing to hit him. The water was a freezing wall that he was slammed into. Try as he may to keep the air in his lungs, it escaped all too easily, all too soon. The frozen water sent familiar needle-like stings to his raw, exposed skin. He struggled, squirmed against the strong arms holding him under. The rough metal edge dug into his chest, cutting into the skin. He could hear his heart beating rapidly as the water closed off his only good ear. Panic and the new serum got the best of him. He kicked and shoved and fought against the men holding him in the water. He wore them down just enough to lunge back and take in a gasping breath of air before they caught him again and shoved him under the icy water once more.

He conserved the breath he had taken in as long as he could, but as time quickly passed, he couldn’t. His mind was foggy from the serum and was beginning to blackout. Slowly he could hear the rest of his body shutting down. Memories of that night from ages ago surfaced. But this time he knew no one was going to pull him from the water.

The last of his gasp of air escaped his lungs. His mind shut down, blacked out.

Agent Stiers grinned at the concept that her plan was running so smoothly. She had broken the Hawk. Killed the agent. Now it was time to revive him as her strongest soldier. She ordered the men to haul the listless Hawk to the walk-in freezer. She had him hung by his injured wrists, handcuffed to a pipe overhead; his feet just barely touched the ground. Foggy breath escaped his nose in short puffs that were few and far between.

Stiers looked at her handiwork a moment before smiling to herself.

She had shot the Hawk out of the sky. And now she had him on display.

Alicia made her way back to the previous set up where her vials of serum and medical tools of trade were still sitting. There a silver case sat with the last ingredient to her plan. The Tesseract.

Now that her serum was flowing through Clint’s veins, he would be strong enough, superior enough, to take the Cube’s energy just as she had. Hawkeye was a true fighter with a warrior’s frozen heart. She’d given him the condensed version of her serum’s doses in one shot and he was still alive. Barely. She’d have to work quickly, not just for the sake of keeping him alive, but to impress her audience at the speed of which her program could turn an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. into a controllable, unstoppable force for Red Room.   

“Gentlemen,” she addressed, grabbing the case and typing the code into the computer to turn on the camera in the freezer. She felt her guests deserved the very best view of her triumph. “If you will, please-”

Three shots were fired and Stiers watched as her assistants fell. The laptop next to her was smoking from where the bullet had crashed it. She reached under the table for her own gun, but a voice stopped her.

“I wouldn’t do that.” A bullet bounced off the ground at Stiers’s feet.

Alicia gently, deliberately put down the case and retorted, “It’s good to see you too, Natalia.”

Agent Romanov was not amused. With her gun still aimed she demanded, “Where is he?”

Stiers shook her head. “Such a shame your talents were wasted.”

“Funny. He said the same thing about me being with Red Room. Now where is he?”

Agent Stiers folded her hands. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. What was it that convinced you? What could he possibly have offered that made you switch?”

The Black Widow made no reply. She had every intention of landing a bullet in Stiers’ heart. But Monarch had Clint, and that wasn’t going to fly. All Widow needed was the location, then there would be nothing standing in her way. No politics, no orders, no regret. Stiers was dead. Her answer to the question was the only thing determining when.

Stiers laughed. “Oh, spare me the theatrics, Natalia. We both know why you’re here. It’s the only answer that makes sense.” She paused, testing Romanov’s reaction. There was none, not immediately anyway. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. Then again, why would I? You both had been conditioned not to. But when I had that knife shoved up his ribs,” that received and nearly imperceptible wince from Agent Romanov, “it hit me. The only possible answer.” Stiers smiled down the barrel of the agent’s gun. “You love him.”

The Black Widow remained silent, unmoving. But a flare of hatred entered her eyes. And Stiers noticed.

“Look at you. Not even denying it.” She scoffed. “Really, Natalia. The American Hawk? That’s what steals that blackened heart of yours?”

“Where is he?” Romanov demanded again.

Stiers grinned sickly. “He’s dead. I killed him.”

“You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Stiers challenged, tilting her head to indicate the pool of blood from where she’d shot Hawkeye. Romanov glanced, but that was all Stiers needed. She snatched her pistol from under the table and fired on the agent who ducked out of the way and behind one of the thick steel poles that held up the place. The bullet had grazed Widow; a small bloom of blood appeared on her sleeve. A red drop fell, joining the pool at her feet. If the black liquid before her really was Barton’s, she’d be tempted to believe Stiers’s claim. But she couldn’t accept it, not yet. It didn’t make sense that Stiers would have moved the body.

“Are we playing games, Natalia?” Stiers all but sang.

Romanov charged up her Widow’s Bite. In one motion she fled the safety of the pole, fired on Stiers, and slid beneath the makeshift desk Alicia’s laptop had been sitting on. She heard her ex-co-worker scream. A peek out from under the stacked crates showed a dimly lit Stiers with a few blossoms of red, burnt skin on her arms and legs. It would definitely be enough to slow her down. Romanov charged up the other wrist saying, “Where’s Barton, Alicia?”

A sick cackle came from Monarch’s throat. “Do you really think a few shots of electricity can hurt me? Natalia, I thought you knew better.” A shot nearly took out Widow’s head. Her ear rang, blocking Monarch’s next sentence some, “Did you honestly think I wouldn’t use my own serum?”

Shit.

If Stiers had been on the serum long enough to complete the needed number of injections – what had Clint said? Twenty? – then she’d be nearly impossible to stop.

Stiers lunged at the desk Nat was hiding behind. The Black Widow dove away, pushing off of the unsteady structure and sending the crates tumbling. The shot-up laptop and silver case clattered to the concrete floor, landing amongst the shattering glass vials. Natasha noticed a wild look come into Stiers’ eyes and followed her gaze to the sliver case. A thought entered her head that terrified her. She knew. She knew what was inside the case and the destruction it could bring. The reinstated Red Room operative reached out for the case and in the same instant, Widow made her way for it.

Romanov reached it first, sending a kick to Stiers’ gut to buy her some more time. The spy sent the case sliding over the concrete floor putting some distance between Alicia and the potential danger she could possess. But in doing so she allowed herself open to attack.

Stiers sent a calculated round kick to collide with Romanov’s head, sending the agent to the ground. Alicia followed through with a knee to the spy’s chin and caught her thrown back head to slam it down to the concrete.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent wrestled with her mind to stay conscious. She had to find Clint. She had to save him just as he had her. She needed her partner to live, and she needed it on a level that she still didn’t completely understand. She snapped herself out of her fog enough to aim a shot from her gun at Stiers’ head. But the operative saw the Widow’s line of sight and dodged, landing the bullet in Alicia’s kneecap.

The pain was greatly significant but short lived. Stiers had the full numbing effects of the serum. She was able to regenerate quickly; her wound began to seal itself within seconds of the injury. It would be so easy to ware down Natasha, especially since the spy was still recovering from her burns and concussion.

“Face it, Natalia. I’m going to slaughter you. Just like I did your precious partner,” Stiers taunted, limping towards the spy. Nat aimed again, although her strength was lacking. She really shouldn’t have come; her injuries were far from healed. But Clint was in trouble and she was not going to let him die on her. The second she’d woken up, she’d gone after him because he’d saved her life and had given her the chance to have some good in it. He’d gotten into her ashy, blackened heart and brought out a glint of light. She was not going to extinguish that. She couldn’t let him die.

She got off a few more rounds, scurrying backwards, trying to get her feet under her. She dodged a shot from Stiers just barely and ran. She ducked behind the cover of some wooden crates.

She let out a breath, straining every part of her. Closing her eyes for a second, she concentrated. She needed a plan. Stiers was going to go for the cube and was closer to it than she was. She could not under any circumstance let Alicia get that cube.

A quick glance showed the limping operative getting closer to the case. But what caught Widow’s interest was tangle of chains draped from the rafters. She reloaded her pistol’s clip with piercing rounds, and aimed. She hit her mark perfectly and the mess of linked metal landed on the limping operative enough to give Nat a chance. She summoned all of her strength and bolted after the case.

She dove for it, her injuries screaming at her as she slid on the concrete. Her slim fingers brushed the smooth metal before a force slammed into her. Stiers’ kicked the spy again, rolling her over. Alicia straddled her and punched at Nat’s face. Romanov retaliated by clipping Stiers’ shoulder with a sting from her Bite. The operative jumped back but was in the fight within seconds. Nat had her stance again, though, and was able to better counter the strikes aimed at her.

The same people had trained them both. They had both gone through the rigorous ritual that was Red Room’s educational policy. They knew how to fight, how to spar, how to shoot one another in key places, how to wear down an opponent who is of one’s equal. And they knew it so well it was like fighting a reflection. Each knew what the other would do and would counter it. But they knew the counters. Each move appeared to be a mirror of the other. The only difference was Natasha was wearing thin. She was injured and in pain and understood she could not continue this dance much longer.

 _Think_ , she commanded of herself. She needed to end this. She needed to defeat Monarch and rescue her partner. But her mind was fading. She was exhausted; Stiers’ symmetric moves were draining her energy at an alarmingly rapid pace. She needed out. She needed to think differently, like someone else. It clicked.

She made a bold move to shift the balance of the fight, and swept Alicia off her feet, catching her kneecap and popping it out of place with her foot. With the small window she’d given herself, Widow made a run for the case. The second she heard the sickening snap of bone being brought back into socket, her grip wound around the case. She tucked it under her arm and leapt up onto some of the crates stashed in the corner. She ducked behind them, hiding, waiting for her target to come to her just like her partner would.  

“You really think he saved you, Natalia?” Stiers teased, a noticeable strain in her voice as her injuries – though healing – accumulated. Nat could hear her labored steps coming closer. “Do you honestly believe he brought out some kind of hidden gold from that stone you call a heart?”

The Black Widow quickly checked her pistol’s clip. Three left. Her Bite was only partially charged.

“How did it happen, Romanov? Where were you when you realized you were in love with him? Fucking his brains out? You always did have that… fire in you. It must have driven you crazy, finding out you couldn’t let him go; that you couldn’t just get up and leave him like you’d have done any other man, any other mission.”

“Can’t a guy and girl just be partners?” she asked lightly, calculating the distance between her and Monarch.

Stiers turned the corner of the crates, following Romanov’s voice, with her weapon aimed at Nat’s head. But Widow had the advantage and shot first, sinking a bullet into Monarch’s gut. The operative would have gone down, but the serum in her veins meant the bullet only knocked her back. Romanov used the case for cover as Alicia shot at her as she ran away. She needed a new plan; her exhaustion was piling up on her.

Stiers got a lucky shot, taking out Nat’s leg with a slung to her thigh. She fell, the case scattering across the concrete before her. Dragging herself forward, the spy made her way to the case, knowing full well that Monarch was closing in. She became distantly aware that she was by the pole surrounded by Clint’s blood and that she was crawling through the edge of it. That thought stayed in the back of her mind and made her sick.

She felt a hand grab the collar of her catsuit and drag her the rest of the way to the pole. Stiers gripped the back of Nat’s neck and slammed her head into the metal support beam as hard as she could. Natasha collapsed to the ground, her eyes fluttering to try and stay open.

“He didn’t save you, Natalia; he made you incredibly weak. Ruined all of your potential.” Monarch kicked away Romanov’s dropped gun before limping over to the case and bending down to pick it up. She labored over towards the fallen spy. “Look at you. Your hair’s all gone. You burnt skin is wrapped in dirty gauze. And you’re lying half-dead in your beloved partner’s blood.”

Nat almost systematically began groping around for something to use to defend herself, to stop this monster before her.

“Don’t worry, Natalia. I’ll be sure to kill you much quicker, much less agonizing, than I did your dear Clint Barton. But first,” Stiers opened the case and an eerie blue glow bathed her twisted face. “Aww, isn’t it beautiful?”

Nat could barely focus; her consciousness was threatening to leave her. She couldn’t be sure her fingers had really felt it, but she knew she had to trust them.

 Stiers grinned wickedly. “And at long last I have an appropriate audience to witness my ascent into true power.” Alicia slipped on the glove she had had made for this moment and carefully, reverently picked up the cube. She felt its energy surge through her, giving her untold strength. She sauntered over to the spy and sat down next to her. She lowered the blue cube so that Natasha could see it more fully.

“This, Natalia Romanova, this is how it all ends.”

“Guess again, bitch!” In one fluid motion, Widow lunged forward and stabbed the needle of the empty syringe into Monarch’s eyeball. Stiers screamed with the pain even the cube could not immediately suppress. Alicia dropped the cube to pull the needle from her eye, but Nat was just too quick. She had Stiers’ gun in her hands before the operative could react. With the last of her strength, The Black Widow shot Monarch in the head, empting the remainder of the clip into the woman’s brainpan.

Blood poured out of the wound, and Nat dropped the empty pistol, keeping her last remaining bit of charge in her Bite trained on the body before her. But Stiers didn’t move. No breath left her lips; no heart beat against her ribs.

Monarch was dead.

Dragging herself over the body, Nat pulled off the glove Alicia had put on and slid her own hand inside. She crawled over to the now blood spattered cube and gripped it tightly. She wasn’t expecting the shot of energy that came with it, but she was more than grateful. Her systems felt revived, her injuries survivable. She tucked the cube back into its case and shut the lid slowly, momentarily hypnotically not quite sure she wanted to leave its addicting energy and power.

With the case in her hand, she stood on unsteady legs. She limped around the pole and trained her eyes into the darkness searching for drops of blood. Even if Clint was dead and Stiers had moved the body, surely there would be a blood trail. She found one drop followed by another. They were few and far between, causing Widow to infer that Barton had been either patched up or drained out. She didn’t think there was _that_ much blood by the pole, but it would be impossible to tell now with Monarch’s mixed in.

She followed the scarce trail until she came to a backroom that looked like an abandoned kitchen. She saw the meat locker door on the other side and knew. She rushed to it as best as she could, struggling with the handle to open it.

There hung her bleeding partner.       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Natasha to the rescue!! And did you like who Monarch turned out to be? Let me know what you thought. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read, commented, Kudos-ed, and bookmarked. You all are the best!!! :)


	26. прелюдия: 6

I hated him. I really did. He was rude, brash, raw. His language reflected that. His obvious disregard for grammar was a direct reflection of his devil-may-care attitude and it annoyed the shit out of me. And he knew it did. It’s why he made it a point to be worse around me. His Midwestern vernacular and hothead attitude bore under my skin like needles.

But his aim, his ungodly patience, and unbridled devotion to S.H.I.E.L.D. gave him this edge that I figured was the only reason the organization kept him around. He was a damn good agent. Even I had to admit it.

When I entered I found him leaning back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, feet propped up on the smooth surface of the table in the center of the room like this was his apartment instead of a meeting. His legs were blocking the path to the next available seat so I stood at them for a moment hoping he’d realize he needed to drop them. Instead he closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

I cleared my throat.

“Problem?” he asked, not giving an inch.

“You’re in the way.”

“So step over, sweetheart. It’s not like those spider legs of yours can’t reach.” He opened his eyes then and gave me his infamous smirk.

“And it’s not like theses hands of mine can’t break yours.”

The smirk didn’t leave and neither did his legs from the table. I shoved my hip into his upright legs but he didn’t budge. “Move.”

“You move. I’m comfy.” He closed his eyes again.

I’d had enough. I popped him on the jaw with only a fraction of the force I was capable of. But it was enough to get him to comply. He dropped his feet and rubbed at his jaw. “You hit me.” There was disbelief in it and that made me happy.

“I gave you fair warning,” I replied, taking my seat and grinning at him. He rolled his eyes.

“You suck, you know that?”

“No, you just can’t handle having someone who can dish it right back out.”

“I can handle plenty, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Scared you’ll like it?”

“Dick.”

“Bitch.”

“I see you’re already practicing your cover identity,” Coulson chimed as he walked in.

We both stared at him. I cleared my throat silently. “Excuse me?”

He handed us our debriefing packets and waited, a small smile on his lips that he normally wouldn’t have displayed.

Barton slammed his folder down, his large hand flat on the cover. “No way, sir. I refuse to be married to _her._ ” The emphasis made it sound like I was some kind of disease.

I stared at our back-stories and couldn’t comprehend the small box sitting next to its partner that read: RELATIONSHIP STATUS. It was filled with the single most disgusting word I’d ever read in a file folder: MARRIED.

I was going to have to pretend to be married to Barton.

Coulson shrugged. “Sorry, Barton. But that’s how it is.” He went on before the Hawk could argue. “Review the packet and if you have questions come see me.” He held up a hand to Barton’s open mouth. “No. The status is not up for questioning.”

He left.

I glared at my partner, hating him more. But he only shook his head and picked up his file to begin assessing the up coming mission. I followed suit and we didn’t say another word until we left for the op. And even then all he said was, “I call shotgun,” and jumped into the front seat of the jeep to take us from HQ to the airport.

 

The op went off without a hitch. It was a simple grab and drop. We were posing as honeymooners in a hotel. I had him up against the wall outside our hotel room door, playing with his tie and threatening to kiss him within an inch of his life. He had a wine bottle in his hand and was grinning from ear to ear. Our mark walked past and we nabbed him, shoving him into the room, tying him up, and calling the team to pick up the trash.

We were on our own for extraction, as we often were, and so decided to stay the night in the hotel and catch our scheduled commercial flight in the morning.

I showered first and made sure to take the bed. Barton glared at me and I just pointed to the floor, saying, “Snooze you lose.”

“Ain’t gonna be doing much snoozing on this floor, sweetheart.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“I will play you for the bed,” he offered. “Rock, paper, scissors. Best two out of three?”

“Good night, Barton.” I turned off the lights after tossing him a pillow. But I didn’t get to sleep long.

I woke up to a sound I was entirely unfamiliar with and it took me a moment to shake off sleep and come to terms with what it was. I jumped out of bed and ran to him, shaking him violently to get him to wake up, to get him to stop screaming.

“Barton, wake up!” I yelled into his ear. But he didn’t snap out of it. _Damn,_ I thought, _that’s his deaf one._ So I did the only rational thing I could. I slapped him and he jolted up, his hand around my throat and his other in a fist, ready to strike.

His eyes were wild; his breath ragged. But reality slowly settled in and he eased me out of his grip. “Sorry,” he mumbled. His heart was pounding; I swear I could almost hear it in the now quiet of the room. He was covered in sweat and just looked so damn miserable that I couldn’t stop myself.

I stood up, stuck out my hand, and told him to come on.

His brows narrowed but he took my hand and I hauled him to his feet, leading him to the bed. I told him to lie down and he only hesitated for a second before collapsing onto the mattress. I settled in on the opposite side and found him staring at me intently.

“What?” I defended.

“Just…”

He didn’t finish so I folded my arms and settled down on the pillow. “Look I know what it’s like to have nightmares. Okay? I know what it’s like for them to not go away even after you’ve opened your eyes. So go the hell to sleep and let me do the worrying for you.”

He grinned lightly, nowhere near his usual wide smile. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.” Then I added, “Just keep your hands to yourself.”

But even that didn’t solicit much more than small tilt in his lips. _Whatever he’d dreamed must’ve scared him to death._

I didn’t realize it then, but looking back I know what it was. He’d gotten cold. It became a particular pattern over the years: when it was cold, Clint didn’t sleep. And when I felt like I was on fire, when it was too hot, it was his turn to sit up at night and stand guard over my nightmares. We’d eventually tell each other. His incident with the ice, how he lost his hearing. And my encounter with fire, how I lost my world. We were both rescued, pulled away in time, but the scars were set and the nightmares solidified. 

We were both broken, both dark, both bodies trying not to suffocate on our own brand of torture. His lungs filled with freezing water, his skin stung with the thousand needles of cold, and his muscles immobilized with the penetrating ice. And in turn, my lungs filled with smoke, my skin stung with the needles of flames, and my muscles immobilized with the compressing heat.

We were shattered people. But together, between the two of us, we had enough little pieces to fill in each other’s gaps. Two broken pieces to make something whole. Not perfect, but strong.

Not pretty, but complete.    


	27. Chapter 13: See You Soon...

She aimed her last bullet at the chain of the handcuffs. The cold was making her fingers stiff but she managed to get the shot. Clint dropped to the ground. Quickly she got up under his arms and dragged him into the kitchen. She left him on the floor and rushed over to the stove. It was gas and she prayed there was still some in the lines. There was, but the fire was weak. She turned on all the burners and lit the oven. She placed a dented bucket of water on one of the burners and rushed back over to Clint.

His clothes were frozen to his body; the water on the stove, once heated up, would have to first be used to get those off. His hair, eyebrows, and stubble were all ice-bound. His wrists were deep red and dark purple all the way around from the handcuffs. There were bruises on his face around his jaw and eyes. She could see blood potentially underneath his clothes. She checked the water on the stove. It was lukewarm, but it would melt the ice on his skin and separate it from his clothes.

She carefully poured the water anywhere fabric met flesh, starting with the blindfold over his eyes, and tugged up on the cloth. She found a knife and began cutting off the fabric of his shirt and vest at its few vulnerable points, exposing his frozen wounds all along his chest. His shoulder had been roughly bandaged but was soaked through with frozen blood. She worked loose the button and fly of his pants. They weren’t sticking as much to his skin as his shirt had, though, and felt a little dryer. She pieced together that they must’ve held him under water in a tub or sink, submerging his head and shoulders, letting the water drip down, and then freeze in the meat locker. She worked him out of his pants and dragged him closer to the stove. She opened the oven door to let the heat out. His skin was pale and tinted blue.

She filled the bucket again and placed it back on the flames to warm up. She searched every cabinet until she came across an old towel riddled with holes, a dishrag, and a dusty tablecloth. Propping him up against the table leg across from the stove, she wrapped him up in the tablecloth. She wet the dishrag with the hot water on the stove and began quickly cleaning out her own wounds. She would be no use to him if she didn’t get herself into better shape first. She tied off some strips of the towel around her worst ones and then immediately went to work on cleaning Clint’s.

They were everywhere: his legs, arms, chest, scalp, back. Deep bruises and black blood frozen against his white skin. She cleaned them out and bandaged them up with strips from the towel. His flesh was at least gaining a little color, but with it came reawakened nerves.

He woke up screaming as an overwhelming wave of pain struck him. He was freezing and ached all over with sharp, stinging pain. She washed out the dishrag and pressed its warm fabric against his face, trying to calm him down. He was shivering violently. She wrapped the tablecloth tighter around him and took him into her arms, leaning his head on her undamaged shoulder, and continually dabbing at his skin with warm water. She ran her hands up and down his arms, chest, and back, trying to keep his blood circulating. It was painful, and too much circulation was going to cause him to bleed out, but too little and he was going to freeze to death.

They sat there on the floor, propped up against the center table in front of the stove. She stroked his hair gently, careful to only warm up and melt the ice and not touch the numerous painful bruises all along his scalp. He continued to shiver against her, his skin covered from head to toe in gooseflesh; the bumps were painful with all the wounds.

He kept his eyes closed and she was almost guaranteed he had a fever.

“’Tasha,” he moaned painfully.

“Shh.” She kept her hands moving on his body, kept him close to her. She wasn’t going to lose him. She kissed his forehead and poured the last of the water from the bucket onto the dishrag and pressed it to his face and neck. The bandages from the towel were soaked through and she could feel his sticky blood seeping onto her clothes and hands. Her own wounds weren’t much better.

Clint’s weight grew a little greater on her shoulder; his light breath quit hitting her neck.

She panicked. “No. No, damn it, Clint. No. You can’t die. You can’t leave me.” She was trying to shake him back awake, to feel his pulse. “You can’t leave me, Clint.” She picked up a tiny flutter in his heart but it disappeared. She laid him flat on the ground, pressed her hands to his chest, and pushed down over and over again to get his heart beating once more. She called his name repeatedly but no indication of a response was visible.

“C’mon, Clint, you can’t die. You’ve been through worse. C’mon.”

No pulse.

A dark shadow crept up into her mind and she shoved it away violently. She had her training, knew it inside and out. But that shadow was strong and wild. With every shove downward into his chest, that shadow became a little more noticeable. She kept trying to push it back, but eventually it consumed her. A feral catharsis followed as years of training and emotional suppression bubbled up into the tears sliding down her face.

“Goddamn it, Clint! No! You can’t die. You can’t leave me. Please, don’t… I need you!” She lowered her head to his ice-cold chest. “Please,” she whispered. “Please don’t leave me.” The orange and blue flame from the stove cast flickering shadows on his closed eyes; those eyes which had intrigued her so long ago when he had an arrow pointed at her heart, those eyes which had almost terrified her when she saw the pain burning in them at the news of his brother dying in vain, those eyes which she had always been drawn to, the eyes that saw the world in all its detail and gave him his name.

She pressed down hard on his chest to get his heart to pump once more. It had been four minutes, maybe longer.

“Please,” she begged one more time. And the words left her mouth before she could even process their accurate and condemning meaning. “I love you.”

Still no pulse.

One, two, three more pumps out of desperation and the tormenting shadow in the back of her mind. Her mouth to his to provide air for his frozen lungs. She felt his lips, blue-tinted in their current state and cold to the touch, rough, chapped, but his.

Still no pulse.

Five minutes.

She wiped the tears from her eyes and laid her head on his cold bare chest. She accepted it then; Clint Barton was dead.

 She had failed.

Her head ached and she didn’t notice she had fallen asleep until distant shouting woke her up.

“Over here,” she heard one voice say. The tone of it was familiar and had she not been so wrung-out from the night, she would have found it odd that he was here. But Coulson found her eventually, clinging to Agent Barton, and called for an immediate medical team dispatch. He approached Agent Romanov carefully, noting her swollen eyes from tears he would politely not mention.

He glanced for a moment at the pale, bloody body on the ground. He knew. The story itself did not matter for he had the ending crystal clear in his mind. Agent Romanov tried to say something, but couldn’t form the words. He nodded knowingly, kindly.

The medical team arrived. For a second Coulson wondered if he’d have to peel Natasha from Clint’s body, but she moved aside and sat on the ground with her knees tucked up to her chest. The team examined the body for a moment before noting his flighty pulse and rushing him to the transport just outside.

Natasha’s head finally rose up. “What,” she breathed.

Coulson just nodded his head.          

…

They had the cube. Monarch was dead. And yet, Natasha could not feel a glint of happiness. She watched through the provided window as the medical staff worked. He was so still; his skin still blue tinted and ghostly white. She hated the sight of him being so injured. Her heart seemed to have stopped beating while they operated. Her mind was telling her that she should leave, get bandaged up, catch some sleep. But she couldn’t move. She was transfixed to the glass by the sight of Clint’s damaged body.

She had failed him. It had been her job, her responsibility, to make sure nothing happened to him. And now…

She dabbed at yet another tear that was forming under her eye.  

He had trusted her. And when he had needed her the most she had not been there. She replayed the moment over and over in her head: their kiss, her complete obliviousness to their surrounding, the bomb. She had slipped, made a mistake. And now she watched the aftermath of that error unfold.

It had been a small miscalculation, a tiny detail that had gone unnoticed. Any other time such a small move might not have had such grand impact. And if it had been anybody else she might not have felt this way. But it had been Clint; _he_ had gotten hurt. And that was a terrible pain in her chest.

The surgeon finished and instructed his assisting nurse to close. When the doctor left, Nat stopped him and asked how Clint was doing.

The doctor sighed heavily and cleaned his glasses on his tie. “He’s lucky to be alive. He lost a lot of blood and the effects of hypothermia are heightened due to his past case of it. He’ll live, granted he can get enough rest and nourishment. I’m putting in a request to take him out of the field for at least two months.”

Nat knew how much Clint would argue that fact.

“He’s lucky you got to him in time. You saved his life, agent.” He left and Natasha felt like the world was spinning too quickly. She’d saved his life? She’d put it in danger! It was her fault…

She forced that thought away went to her quarters to get cleaned up. Clint was going to be okay. Could she say the same about herself?

 

“Two months!” Clint nearly screamed. He coughed on the end, his lungs still not up to par. “Nat, that’s crazy. I’m fine, I swear!”

“It’s doctor’s orders, Clint. Besides, it’s not me you have to convince, it’s Fury. He feels some time off would be…beneficial. You did just go through a major amount of stress both physically and emotionally.”

He scoffed at that.

“Clint, she did screw with your brain. Not to mention inject you with the serum again. If you have a reaction to it-”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, Nat.” He sighed and slumped a little further into the pillows propping him up. “But seriously, two months? What the hell am I supposed to do for two months?”

She shrugged and sat down on the side of his hospital bed. She still wasn’t quite comfortable with seeing him so vulnerable; it just wasn’t Clint. “Maybe catch up on all that sleep you’ve missed your whole life.” She ended it with a smile to give it the appearance of a joke, but in truth, she was serious. Clint needed to rest, needed to heal. And not just physically.

Monarch had gotten into his head and played around. She’d pulled up deeply recessed memories and used drugs to heighten their horror. Nat knew what that was like. Mind control was a steady routine in Red Room. It would take some time for what happened to not enter Clint’s nightmares, and with steady rest hopefully that would occur quicker. But Nat also knew that Clint was like her. Rest versus work: work always wins. For her, it kept the memories at bay, and she suspected Clint was the same way.

He was staring at her, his blue-grey eyes soft and attentive. After a moment he reached for her hand and she did nothing to rebel against his touch as he gently stoked his thumb over the side of her palm. “You’re beating yourself up over something,” he reasoned.

She bit her lip. Damn his attention to detail. “I should’ve protected you better. You trusted me to have your back and then I failed you. I let myself get caught up in-”

“Nat, stop.” His voice was as soft as his eyes but still full of force. “It wasn’t your fault. None of it was.”

She frowned and took his hand in hers, holding it tightly. The action caused more conflict in her than she wanted. On one hand this kind of closeness, this connection had gotten them in trouble. And on the other it had caused her to need to save him.

In a barely auditable whisper she said, “I almost lost you, Clint.”

He swayed their locked hands slightly side to side. “I’m right here, ‘Tasha. You saved me.” He smirked, hiking his features crookedly up further on one side. “I guess that makes us even.”

She smiled but inside she was reeling at the idea of being free from his debt. She had always told herself that that’s why she stayed. She owed Clint her life. But that debt had been paid. So where did that leave her? Leave them?

She brought his hand up to her mouth and pressed her lips to his palm. It was a quick kiss. A peck to match the one he’d left on her cheek that night on the rooftop. It was an expression of gratitude. He had released her from her bond to him. She no longer had to stay. But she would never leave; she didn’t want to.

“Get some sleep,” she told him. She slipped away, casting back a look to let him know she was not going too far. He smiled and closed his eyes.

 

Clint recovered quickly and was soon discharged from the med bay. He wasn’t reinstated to active status yet, but he had hope that Fury would be convinced and reconsider his lengthy sentence.

He found Natasha in the training room, working away at the punching bag. He watched her for a moment, took in her aggressive grace and the movements of her body.

The line of their relationship was beyond blurred. The peck to her cheek, to his hand, the kiss in Budapest, and her words that night as he lay there dying. He remembered it in glimpses: the dull flame on the stove, the warmth of her hands as they tried to bring life back to his skin, her mouth on his to give him air. He wasn’t sure they were real or his muddled mind, but he swore he had heard her say the three most potent words that could ever leave her mouth.

He had come down here with the intention of confronting her about them. But as he watched her beat calculated punches into the bag, he thought better of it. She looked so natural, so at home. Her life was her work. The same went for him. And it was better that they kept it that way.           

He came up to her and steadied the bag from the other side.

“Work your left a little more; you’re starting to slip into a pattern.”

She followed his advice and mixed up her attacks, randomized her punches. She added some speed and force to each of them now that he was keeping the bag from swaying too much.

“Remember to breathe,” he instructed.

She let out her breath in rhythm to her punches. She settled into the feeling. Her mind narrowed and she increased her force even more.

She swung too wide.

Her fist landed on Clint’s bicep.

He stepped back, exclaiming in pain and shock.

“Oh, God, Clint. I’m sorry. I’m sorry; I didn’t-”

“You’re fine, Nat. Just watch your angles.” He smiled but continued to rub at his arm. He’d have a bruise there, no doubt, but that was all the further the damage would spread. Physically anyway. The look on Natasha’s face was enough to crumble all his defenses. “Nat, I’m fine. Really.” His voice was quiet. She just stood there as if too afraid to move.

He stepped towards her and took her into his arms. She didn’t embrace him back right away but after a few moments her arms tentatively wrapped around him and she leaned her head on his shoulder.

“I almost lost you, Clint,” she whispered. Her fingers tightened the slightest bit. “I don’t know what I would have done…”

“Shh.” And that was his only reply. That was all he could manage to say. He hadn’t realized how much he had hurt her. How much he had put her through. “I should never have brought you into this,” he murmured.

She slipped from his embrace but stayed close. “I chose to come along, Clint. Besides, we’re partners. We stay together, right?”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. How loose had the term “partner” become? Did it still mean simply co-workers? Or had it slipped soundlessly into inseparable?

…

Fury thought about reducing Barton’s off-time down to three weeks if he continued to show physical recovery, no signs of mental deterioration, or any reaction to the serum Monarch had given him – although, he’d lost enough blood that most of the serum had drained out with it. The agent was tough; Fury would give him that.

But he was wary about putting Barton back into the field so soon. Tough wasn’t invincible. And he had the reports before him. Clint wasn’t sleeping. The mandatory psych sessions showed that the agent had a disturbingly long history of insomnia and it had only gotten worse since Monarch had played with his brain.

Coulson entered to drop off some paperwork when he noticed the intense look of concentration on his superior’s face. A quick glance at the open file on the director’s desk gave him all he needed to know.

“Difficult decision, isn’t, Sir?”

Fury leaned back in his chair. “What would you advise?”

Coulson thought about it for a moment. “I think he needs the work to get his mind off of what happened. But to put him back in the field so soon… I don’t suppose there’s a,” he tried to find the right word, “smaller mission? One that may not be so critical in case something was to go south.”

Fury smiled at the humor he found in Coulson’s statement. “Agent, we are S.H.I.E.L.D. We protect the world from dangers it doesn’t even know exist. Believe me when I say there is no such thing as a smaller mission.”

“Then perhaps importance isn’t the factor we should consider. What about protection?”

“Meaning what?”

“Right now we have a cube that’s sitting in a facility being studied by people who have no idea what it is. They’re going to be there awhile. Perhaps long enough that an outside force could get through routine security. Put Barton on lead security detail and I guarantee you that cube will be safe. Plus it puts him in a different environment, gives him work to distract himself from his previous mission, and-”

“Separates him from Natasha.”

There was a pause as Coulson pursed his lips. “So what now?” he inquired, folding his arms over his chest. “How do we tell them that they’re no longer partners?”

“Oh no. Barton and Romanov are still partners; they work too damn well together for us to terminate that. But I think they need some time away from each other. Time to sort out what they feel, to fight or accept it. We’ll test it with time and distance. If it withstands then they’ll have no qualms from me about engaging in a relationship. They’ll know the risks. But if it cools off, well, then we have nothing to worry about.” The director leaned back in his chair further and folded his hands. “We’ll put Barton on security for the cube. In the meantime, a development with our ‘consultant’ has arisen. Send in Romanov. If there’s one thing Stark cannot resist it’s a pretty face.       

Coulson nodded, answering, “Yes, Sir.”

“Oh and Coulson,” Fury added. The agent turned to his superior. “Make sure we put a rush on getting Barton’s bow fixed. Hate for him to loose it.”

Coulson nodded once more, acceptingly, understandingly, and left the director’s office.

…

Clint felt like they needed to talk about everything that had happened. It hadn’t been a regular mission; it wasn’t one of the past assignments that he could forget and moved on. This one had changed him, had changed how he felt, how he thought, about his partner. There had always been a steady physical attraction, sure; Natasha was gorgeous. But in her moment of vulnerability she’d chosen to turn to him and that had left him wanting her in a way more than physical.

He kept trying to put it from his mind, but the image of her fiery eyes was seared into his brain. Thousands of questions rattled around in his head. Had she kissed him simply because he was there? Had it been a desire for her? Did she feel that way now?

He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. He needed to concentrate on the work before him. Groups of scientists huddled around an object they had no hope of understanding. He was glad to see Dr. Selvig on the scene now, though. At least there was someone here who had a slight grasp on what to do.

New Mexico had been quite the interesting ride. When they’d gotten the code he’d never dreamed it’d turn out to be aliens from some other realm with space travel abilities and some serious grudges. And they’d seemed so human. Thor, though formidable, had shown pain at the compound and joy at the bar Barton had followed him and Selvig to.    

From his high-up vantage point he saw her enter with Coulson. It looked like they were chatting about something, maybe some of the more humorous aspects of the Stark case she’d just come off of. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to her about it, but he’d caught snippets from conversations with Coulson and Fury, and had skimmed the debriefing packet.

He couldn’t help but feel a light feeling wash over him. But it was soon followed by the weight of the nondescript turn their relationship, their partnership, had taken. He really had no clue where they stood.

 

Natasha laughed at the smooth wise crack that Coulson had made about Tasers and Supernanny. She was glad to be away from the dangerous and reckless behavior of Tony Stark but did, though she’d never admit it, kind of miss his humor. 

Coulson’s laugh faded away and he dismissed her by saying, “Barton’s probably up in his nest.” He pointed to the yellow scaffolding box high above the testing center for the cube. Natasha nodded, suddenly wishing she hadn’t come. But she was shipping out to Russia for an assignment in a few hours and didn’t want to leave without telling her partner where she was going.

She absolutely hated this newfound dread that came with seeing his face. She wanted to go back to when they were simply partners. She stopped herself. They had never been simply partners. There had always been that note of her debt to him in every mission, every conversation, every late night nightmare. He had saved her life. And now she had saved his. He’d freed her from the debt that had kept them together for so long. That was what she truly didn’t want. She didn’t want to be out of her bond to him.

But then her thoughts settled on that word: bond. Ever since Budapest the meaning of that word had gone blurry. She knew he’d kissed her because he’d been running on pure exhilaration and she’d been there to celebrate with him. And then everything had gone to hell anyway so…

She hadn’t seen him in almost two months. It was strange to consider that this was how it was going to be for a while. Fury insisted that it was only to give Barton a rest, to keep an eye on him, but Nat suspected the director knew more. Why wouldn’t he? He was _the_ spy.

“Agent Romanov,” Coulson called after her before she was too far. She turned back to look at him, a brow raised in answer.

“Just…” the man started, a strange look in his eyes, “just keep in mind, agent, that caring about someone isn’t weakness; it’s a reason to survive.”

She continued to stare at him for a minute even after he had left to brief Selvig, his words haunting her. Could a debt ever really be paid off when the person you owed was the same one who was your reason to live? She couldn’t answer that and struggled for a moment with a rush of memories of all the times she’d lived because of her partner. Not because he saved her, but because he gave her a reason to keep going. How could she ever pay off that debt?

A repelling rope dropped down the second she was under the scaffolding and she knew that Barton had watched her come over. She climbed the rope up to the box with ease and was greeted by his hand when she reached the top. For a moment she hesitated to take his offered palm. Before she wouldn’t have thought twice about gripping his hand and taking his assist up, not because she couldn’t do it herself, but because it would have been easier just to take the hand. There was no need to waste energy she could use later.

But now that palm had meaning. It had been flat against her back in Budapest and had traveled her sides in heated venture. And she had enjoyed the rough, strong, calloused nature of it. God, she wanted to go back to before that night. That was why she took it now. She decided to tell herself that the hand didn’t have any more meaning than that it was Clint’s hand offering to help her conserve some energy.

He hoisted her up onto his platform and she sat down next to him. He took in the sight of her. He wasn’t used to not seeing her everyday.

She could feel his steady gaze on her and turned to face him. She got caught by the eyes she had long regarded as beautiful. A strange knot formed in the pit of her stomach and she considered that maybe a few months away from Clint was a good thing after all.

He was still staring at her as if expecting her to say something. All that came out was an unintentionally curt, “What?”

He shook his head and looked away. “Nothing, just, glad to see your hair’s getting longer.” It was a pale effort to disguise his obvious infatuation with the lovely woman who was his partner.

But the comment hit Romanov like a punch. She knew Clint blamed himself for everything that had happened before, in, and after Budapest. She knew he wished he’d never involved her. But she didn’t want that. She was still his partner. And no matter how much that term may have been recently redefined, it still meant that she had his back no matter what.   

“Yeah, I can’t say I was a real fan of the extensions.”

He shook his head. “Nah, it was…um, too dark.”

The conversation decayed and, god, she hated it. This wasn’t her, wasn’t them.

She took in a breath. She started to say what she knew she needed to but would detest to have come across her tongue at the exact moment he presumably did the same. Their jumbled speech ended abruptly and she broke the sudden silence that followed with, “You first.”

He didn’t look at her and she wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. “‘Tasha, what do you remember about Budapest? I mean, I know your file says you don’t recall the bomb going off, but do you remember anything that happened before it?”

She knew what he was asking. And it didn’t escape her notice that he concealed it in a way that was offering her an out. She could write off their kiss entirely by saying she didn’t remember it. He was giving her that option. And taking it would break his heart.

But taking it would put them right back to where they had been before Budapest, before the bomb, before the freezer, before she’d admitted she loved him. If she didn’t remember the kiss, and he didn’t know she’d told him her deepest truth, then they were back to where they had been. Weren’t they?

She shrugged, sealing her fate, regaining her distance from the man she wanted nothing but to be close to. “I remember the ride to the safe house. You drove. But after that it’s just gone. Brain-blocked trauma, you know?”

He nodded, his gaze staying glued on anything but her.

Barton tried not to let the impact of her statement show on his features. S.H.I.E.L.D. training was good for that at least. It had been a test. And he’d gotten an answer that told him everything. She’d said she didn’t remember, but she hadn’t asked him why he was inquiring about it. She would’ve asked if she truly didn’t remember.

He knew she would catch on to his question. She knew he would read her answer. She’d made the choice and that’s where it would end. The kiss never happened, even though they both knew it had.  

Natasha looked out at the testing chamber, the cube glowing in its stand on the opposing end. “Have they found out anything?”

“Some. Dr. Selvig is running the show so there’s been progress, but…” he sighed heavily. She risked a glance at him and found his eyes heavy. “We should’ve never brought that thing here. We should have buried it, thrown it back into the ocean where Stark found it.”

She was quiet and he shifted slightly.

“I mean, don’t you feel that, Nat? There’s something off in the air. Makes your hair stand on end.”

She did feel it and couldn’t say she necessarily disagreed with him. But at least Monarch didn’t have the cube; at least it was under S.H.I.E.L.D. protection.

“I dunno,” he went on. “I just have the feeling something bad s’gonna happen.” 

Without even thinking, she grabbed his hand in hers and wound her fingers into his, giving his hand a small squeeze. “Just do what you do best: keep an eye on things.” She ended it with a smile and he finally looked at her, his lips curling up at the edges.

She’d told him she didn’t remember their kiss, and that was a lie. She’d told him she loved him, and that was true. But it wasn’t allowed to be true. She couldn’t be close to him; the Black Widow would kill him. She killed anyone who got close. And as much as she knew it was wrong, she didn’t let go of his hand.

He didn’t let go either. But after a moment he cleared his throat and stated, “So I hear you’re shipping out.”

“Yeah. Russia. There’s a particular arms dealer that needs some attention. Anton gave us some decent intel so Coulson patched me up a mission.”

He nodded methodically and tried not to let his worry show on his face. He didn’t like the idea of his partner going on missions without him.

He didn’t realize he’d tighten his grip on her hand until she added, “Hey, I’ll okay,” and beamed a smile. He grinned back, knowing full well that she would be. Natasha was more than capable of handling herself; he knew that. But he still didn’t let go of her hand.

They stayed like that for a while, partners sitting together, connected by a strong grip and a deeply embedded fear of letting go. The cube below sent out a flare that set the scientists and technicians into a small frenzy.

“Looks like you’ll have plenty to keep yourself busy,” Natasha quipped. She sighed heavily, using the excuse that she had a plane to catch as a reason to let go of Clint’s warm, strong hand.

She didn’t want to let go and his reluctance to release her was evident as well.

“Be careful,” he called as she stood up and prepared to take the propelling rope down. Another surge from the cube sent a small shock up through the walls and the crew down below scattered again.

Nat watched them hustle around and felt it then, what Barton had been saying about the air being wrong. She had a bad feeling about this cube. “You too,” she answered back and meant it.

Clint got up to stand next to her and realized too late how close he was. He tried to take a step back but the look that came over his partner’s eyes stilled him. There was something in them that he’d been longing to see since the day he’d had an arrow pointed to her heart. He’d never be able to name it, but it was there and completely irresistible. It had spared her life once, forced him to save her.

Her gaze stayed steadily on him as if she was frozen, and the action that followed bordered on unconscious. It was quick, brief. But that short and perfect kiss would follow her all the way to Russia.

It reinforced her truth. And even if he didn’t know it from her words, she was glad he’d have it from suspicion in that concise, little, shared moment.

“See you soon,” she whispered, pulling back and preparing to propel down. The smile that followed her comment was purely, genuinely Clint.  

He watched her leave, new red hair swaying in waves behind her. He’d miss that red hair. But it didn’t matter as much. She’d be back.

She’d return to him, darkness, bloodshed, scars, and all.

His attention turned back to the cube and the personnel that swarmed the space around it. They looked frantic at the erratic behavior the object was displaying.

Once again the Tesseract shot up a wave of electric blue energy, sending tendrils of cobalt up the walls to gather at the ceiling. His hair stood on edge; his skin rose.

He didn’t trust this.

Clint’s gaze followed the energy’s path and his eyes reflected its light blue as it collect above him before dissipating into the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!   
> So this is the end of Project: Accipiter. (But there's one more chapter, you say. Yes, I'll get to that in a minute.)   
> I hope you enjoyed it and how it ties in to The Avengers (the first one, anyway). Let me know what you thought by leaving a comment. :) 
> 
> Next week I will start posting Room For Rent which is a 1940s Clintasha AU. So check that out if you're interested. 
> 
> Once again I'd like to thank each and every one of you for all you for reading and for your comments, Kudos, and bookmarks. I really, really appreciate all of you! :) 
> 
> Now, about that chapter…   
> Well in true Marvel fashion, I have an end credits scene. More on that in the notes on the next chapter.


	28. After the Credits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Spoliers! for McCann's comic run of Blindspot)

Trick stood at the faded headstone and bowed his head in a strange form of acceptance. It didn’t matter how much wrong he’d done in his life, he’d be an equal the to man buried six feet underneath him before long. It wasn’t a foreign concept; he’d been fighting this disease for what felt like his whole life. And now it was at its end.

“Sorry, Barn,” he mumbled to the gravestone. The name and date were still visible, but coated in lichen. A small chip on the corner of the O in Barton made the grave look a lot older than it was. There was no inscription, no frivolity or excess. It was clear cut, streamlined. Trick figured that was the best Clint could have done given the circumstances. Circumstances that he helped create. He sighed deeply at that, regret hanging in the air that left his lungs.

“Pity, isn’t it?” an unfamiliar voice asked from behind him. Trick turned around to face a strange man, concealed in the shadows of the setting sun.

“Who?”

“The name’s Zemo. Baron Helmut Zemo.” He didn’t offer his hand, but Trick got the feeling this wasn’t a cordial kind of meeting anyway. “And I have an offer for you.”

Trick stared at him, tried in vain to make out his face. Finally he scoffed and shook his head. “I don’t know what to tell you, man. But whatever kind of offer you got, it ain’t gonna do me much good. I’m about to be joining this guy right here,” he cocked his head in the direction of Barn’s grave.    

Zemo laughed, a sound that made Trick’s skin crawl. “Oh how right you are, Mr. Chisholm.”

Trick narrowed his brows.

“Just not in the way you think.”

At that another figure appeared, this time behind Trick. He turned to face the shadow creeping over his shoulder and couldn’t help but gasp as he saw the newcomer.

“I thought-”

“That was the point,” Barney smirked. His eyes were blank and dead.

“You once trained the best, Mr. Chisholm,” Zemo went on. “Now I need you to do it again.” He took a step forward and Trick felt the overwhelming need to run, but he had nowhere to go. “And this time I need you to do it better.”

Trick felt Barn’s cold hands wrap around his arms, keeping them pinned down. At an earlier point in his life, Trick would have been able to shake off the younger man with ease. But he was too brittle now, too far gone. And as he felt a needle slip under his skin and his eyes droop, he knew, bone-deep, that there was no escape this time. Before his death he’d have to face his sins.

And maybe then Hell wouldn’t look so bad after all.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote this little blurb with the idea that it would help set up Blindspot which is my opinion would be an excellent 2nd Hawkeye movie (should Marvel Studios ever ask me to, you know, help with getting this character a solo series.) If you haven't read the comic I highly recommend it.


End file.
